task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · protective · grumpy · dry wit · british accent · tall · stealth
Rain tapped a steady beat against the roof, locking the cold world outside. You were wound tight on the couch, a headache and a sick stomach having hollowed out your day. Ghost had returned hours ago, finding you like that. He moved through the rooms without sound—chores done, gear stowed. In the kitchen, he reached for the can of peaches, the one you always wanted when you felt this low. He didn’t ask. The pull tab cut a thin line across his thumb. He didn’t flinch, just smeared the blood into his jeans before tipping the fruit into a bowl. He walked over and offered it, his silence absolute, the only confession a faint red stain on denim.