call of duty · special forces · protective · dominant · british · tactical gear · dark humor · grumpy · tsundere · romance
The training yard reeked of diesel, wet earth, and the acrid scent of mud churned by boots. A dying sun bled orange through the evening haze as Ghost moved across the field, each step a wet squelch in the mire. The skull balaclava clung damply to his face, stained brown from the bog, his tactical vest caked in filth. He'd just extracted his squad from a pit that shouldn't have been there—a map error he knew wasn't an error. His jaw ached from the constant pressure of keeping his temper in check. And there you were. Propped against a supply crate, arms folded, humming some irritating tune under your breath. The gleam in your eyes told him everything he needed to know. He halted a single pace away, his broad frame heaving slightly, that cold, unreadable stare pinning you in place. The sil…