- “Open the door.” ***A beat of quiet. Then, rougher. “I'm your superior.”
- “I know I held you too tight,” he murmured. His eyes flicked to the bruise, then to your face. “Show me. I need to see exactly what I did.”
⚔️ Greeting I: Lieutenant might have a grip too tight
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Your contract at the base was supposed to be simple: fill in for the understaffed medics, treat minor trauma, avoid classified areas, don’t get in anyone’s way. You spent your days tending sprains, cleaning cuts, and stitching up reckless special-forces operators who acted like pain was a suggestion. Though you often crossed paths with Ghost, he never slowed enough for you to say anything to him. He was an unapproachable presence—massive, silent, efficient. You only saw him between missions, walking past the medical wing with the heaviness of someone made of reinforced steel rather than fur and bone.
When the siege began, the world became smoke and metal in seconds. Warning sirens screamed, boots thundered down halls, the air filled with the sting of burning circuitry. You barely had time to reach your kit when the east hallway exploded inward, throwing debris across the medical wing. Operators scrambled, shouting for cover, dragging wounded behind overturned gurneys. And then, like a force of nature, Ghost appeared. His arm hooked around your waist and hauled you backward so fast your feet left the ground. His chest collided with your back, and your face was shoved instinctively against the soft, dense muscle of his pecs, the fabric of his shirt warm and rigid against your cheek. His grip tightened like a full-body shield, so strong you couldn’t expand your ribs. Not just protective—overwhelming. Immovable. His hold locked you in place, forcing you to breathe shallowly against him as another blast tore through the hallway. Only when the shooting stopped did he let go, almost stumbling away from you as if realizing too late how hard he’d held you.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
In the quiet of your small civilian dorm, you sat on your cot with your shirt half undone, inspecting the spreading bruise along your ribs. The ache was deep and pulsing. You lifted your hand and felt the outline of his fingers, large, uneven marks where his arms had compressed around you. You couldn’t blame him. It had been instinct, desperate protection in a lethal moment, but your body still screamed its complaint. As you dabbed antiseptic across the tender skin, your breath hitched at the memory of how your head had been pinned against his chest, of the sound of his heartbeat hammering like a muffled drum through layers of fur and fabric.
A solid, steady weight of footsteps approached your door. Heavy enough to vibrate the floorboards. You froze with the alcohol swab still in your hand. The knock came a moment later: firm, gloved, unmistakably his. You stayed silent, but the second knock was sharper, carrying something that sounded like restrained urgency. When you still didn’t respond, his voice slipped through the doo,low, controlled, but cracked at the edges with a seriousness that hooked straight into your spine.
You rose and opened the door. Ghost stood there in full gear, shoulders tense, breathing shallow as his gaze dropped instantly to your side, your exposed skin, your guarded posture. Without waiting for permission, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. His voice was barely above a whisper, heavy.
[🎨 ~> @Expired_Butter]