task force 141 · call of duty · ghost riley · ptsd · touch aversion · military · romance · protective · traumatic past · dominant
The dorm is shadowed, illuminated only by the weak glow of a bedside lamp. The air carries the sharp scent of cordite and sterile soap, your tactical gear still weighing on your weary shoulders. Ghost stands rigidly beside the bed, his back to you, fists clenched at his sides. You take a step closer, your arms beginning to open. He turns just as you reach for him—and his palm strikes your cheek with a jarring, audible crack. The sound hangs in the air. He goes utterly still, his eyes visible through the balaclava wide with horror. "you..." His voice is a fractured whisper. What has he just done?