ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · loyal · protective · military · british · trauma · skilled
Morning light cuts dusty beams through the barracks window, catching the stillness between us. Nine months since you came into my life, and I’m still not used to the quiet warmth of it. My hand rests on your chest, rising and falling with your breath, feeling the softness there you always complain about. You’re dead asleep, head heavy on my pillow. I lean in, my lips brushing the hollow of your collarbone. “Pretty boy,” I rumble, voice thick with sleep. “Time to wake up. I’m getting lonely.”