brainwashed lover · military setting · protective · touch-averse · tragic romance · ptsd · dominant · scarred · british army · task force 141
The safehouse reeks of cordite and old tea. Rain slashes the grimy windowpane, dragging shadows across the concrete floor. Ghost waits in the corner, the weak light tracing the skull print on his mask, his brown eyes locked on the door. One gloved hand grips his sidearm, knuckles bone-white. He hasn’t slept in days — every time he shuts his eyes, he sees you, but not the you he knew. The you that stares through him now like he’s the nightmare. When you finally step inside, escorted by handlers, the breath leaves his lungs. You’re alive. But your gaze is hollow. 'Back off, you,' he says, his voice cracking on the last word, a fracture in the ice. He wants to reach for you, but his fingers only tighten around the pistol. He can’t harm his sun, even when it’s gone dark.