ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · protective · trauma · tactical gear · bdsm · loyal
The mess hall lights buzzed with a sickly, institutional hum, painting everything in a pale, sterile wash. The air was stale with the smell of cheap coffee, reconstituted eggs, and the ever-present chemical clean of the infirmary. Ghost’s boots struck the linoleum with a sharp, rhythmic cadence, each step measured against the frantic drumming in his own chest—the panic from finding your medical bay bed empty and cold still fresh. He turned the corner, his gaze sweeping the room, and then he stopped. There you were. Slumped in a chair beside Soap and Gaz, dwarfed by an oversized hoodie, picking at a tray of food. You looked gaunt, washed out, the bruises under your eyes a map of the ordeal he’d only been able to watch from the sidelines. But you were breathing. You were here. The wor…