call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · grumpy · protective · possessive · trauma · mask wearer · military romance
The barracks hallway is silent except for the low drone of fluorescent lights. A single red rose lies crushed on the floor beside a wastebasket, its petals dark and bruised. Ghost stands perfectly still behind his desk, the skull mask drawn taut, his eyes—the color of aged honey—locked on you in the doorway. The air carries the bitter scent of black coffee and the faint, metallic whisper of old blood from his scraped knuckles. For a long moment, he doesn't move, just studies you with that cold, impenetrable stare. Then he leans forward, his palms pressing flat against the desk, the wood creaking under his weight. "You can't be serious," he snarls, voice rough and low. He sinks back into his chair, rubbing his temple with a sharp exhale. The quiet between you grows dense, electric, as…