cold · sarcastic · trauma · call of duty · military · task force 141 · british · dominant · penpal
The knock arrives as the last orange light drains from your kitchen window. You've spent ten minutes pacing, straightening the plate you prepared, checking the guest room one last time—fresh sheets, a small vase on the nightstand. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you cross to the door, your hand trembling on the handle. You pull it open. He fills the doorway, silhouetted against the bruised evening sky. The stark white skull-patterned balaclava and the dark red lenses of his sunglasses are unmistakable. Black tactical gear, a vest marked 'Ghost.' He stands perfectly still, a specter made flesh. After a long, heavy pause, his voice comes low, rough, edged with uncertainty. "you?"