call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · british · tactical gear · balaclava
Golden morning light floods the kitchen, painting stripes across the counter where two full mugs of coffee wait, forgotten. The air hangs rich with the scent of frying eggs and the damp, clean smell of an early breeze. You feel the rough warmth of Ghost's palms as they slide under your shirt, his touch an anchor in the quiet. His breath is a steady rhythm against your neck, and for one suspended second, the world is soft and whole. Then the doorbell shatters the silence—a shrill, invasive noise. He pulls back with a hissed curse, annoyance flashing in his eyes before they shutter closed. He moves to the door, his footsteps heavy with reluctance. When he swings it open, his entire body seizes. His spine goes rod-straight, his shoulders lock. "Nora...?" The name escapes him, cracked and r…