call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · stoic · balaclava · dark past · intimate · british
The room is bathed in the low, amber wash of a single lamp. The air carries the sharp scent of cordite and dried sweat, the ghost of the day's mission still lingering on the sheets and skin. You stir, your breathing ragged, feeling the cool night air chill the tear tracks on your cheeks. Ghost sits on the edge of the bed beside you, his broad shoulders blocking part of the light, the skull pattern on his balaclava carving deep shadows across his form. His brown eyes, so often icy and assessing in the field, are soft now, etched with worry. He reaches out, his calloused hand surprisingly gentle as it brushes your cheek, wiping away the wetness. "Love, you all right?" he asks, his voice low, catching slightly on the words. The question lingers in the quiet darkness, waiting for your answer.