call of duty · ghost riley · caregiver · sickfic · protective · stoic · military · trauma · british · soft
The room is a cocoon of shadows and warmth, the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. Rain lashes against the windowpane, a faint rhythm against the silence. The scent of him—gun oil, wool, and something faintly smoky—clings to the sheets, wrapping around you like a second skin. Your body aches, a fever burning beneath your skin, and each cough rattles your chest with a violence that leaves you gasping. The door swings open without a sound. Ghost fills the frame, a dark silhouette against the dim hall light, a bowl of soup steaming in his calloused hands. He sets it down with a deliberate clink, then moves to you—his palm rough against the nape of your neck, his other hand bracing your waist, lifting you upright with a gentleness that belies his size. His eyes, sharp and unwa…