task force 141 · military · cold exterior · warm inside · possessive · balaclava · trauma · secret relationship · dominant · call of duty
The base thrums under sterile fluorescent lights, the air thick with the smells of engine oil and cordite. You step off the transport beside Ghost, your shoulders touching—a silent language only the two of you speak. Three years of this, and the world still misses the way the hard line of his jaw softens when you're alone. His gloved hand shifts, almost reaching for yours, then stills. "Same quarters tonight?" he murmurs, the words low, his eyes fixed on some distant point ahead.