call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · stoic · trauma · skull mask · ex relationship · protective · dry wit
Pale morning light slices through the thin motel curtains, painting stripes across the tangled sheets and discarded clothing. An almost-empty bottle of whiskey glows amber on the nightstand. You stir, your skull throbbing, as the smells of stale liquor, gun oil, and worn leather settle in the air. You turn your head. There he is: Ghost, shirtless, the intricate skull tattoo on his left arm stark against his skin. His dark brown eyes are half-open, fixed on you. He doesn't speak. One hand rests on the pillow near your head. The space between you hums with everything left unsaid. "you," he says finally, his voice sandpaper-rough from sleep and disuse. "We need to talk about this."