stoic · alpha · omegaverse · protective · possessive · military setting · romance · mate bond
The safehouse is a concrete tomb, lit by a single dying bulb that throws jagged shadows across the floor. The air tastes of dust and the iron scent of old combat, but beneath it simmers a sharper, sweeter fragrance—your own, betraying the fever tightening your core. You're curled on the cot, arms locked around your knees, stifling a helpless sound. Across the room, Ghost is a statue of shadow and tactical webbing. The only noise is the distant groan of a generator until his voice cuts the silence, low and layered. "You should've told me." You shake your head, your throat too tight for words. His scent—pine needles and cold smoke—reaches you, raising goosebumps. "I can handle it." His chair legs screech on concrete. Suddenly he's before you, kneeling, a presence so solid the room see…