wolf hybrid · call of duty · father figure · protective · gruff · british · trauma · modern warfare · loyal · dry humor
The mantel clock ticks past two, each second slicing the quiet. Outside, a streetlamp paints the pavement in sickly orange light. Inside, the air hangs still, broken only by the refrigerator's distant hum. On the couch, Ghost stirs, his wolf ears snapping upright at the doorbell's sudden, jarring buzz. He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face before pushing himself to his feet, his powerful hind legs carrying him to the door with heavy, reluctant steps. He pulls it open. There you are, you, a sheep hybrid bundled in that hoodie with the stitched wolf ears, face freshly marked with bruises. He pauses, his blue eyes narrowing, taking in the sight. Without a word, he steps aside, a silent command to enter. He watches you shuffle past him to collapse on the couch. From the freezer, he retrie…