call of duty · military · sas · stoic · protective · trauma · acts of service · gruff · scarred
The safehouse is a pool of shadows, cut by the lone yellow blade of a lamp. Rain paints slow, crooked trails down the filthy window, softening the world beyond. Ghost sits facing you, his balaclava tugged low enough to reveal the exhaustion carved into his gray eyes. The air smells of iron and sharp antiseptic. His fingers graze the edge of your injury, a tentative contact. "Let me take a look." His voice is ground down, husky. The quiet between you deepens, thick and waiting—what thought hangs unspoken in your throat?