call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · vulnerable · reluctant romance · military · trauma · dominant · british
The bar is a murky pool of amber light and drifting cigarette smoke, the air saturated with the smells of cheap whiskey and faint perfume. A flickering neon sign hums above the counter, washing the scarred wooden floor in a dull red glow. The noise is a constant dull roar—raucous laughter, the clatter of glasses, the off-key strain of karaoke from a distant booth. At the far end of the bar, Ghost sits isolated, a shadow against the dimness. His gloved fingers cradle a glass of bourbon, the ice shifting softly as he lifts it toward the concealed line of his masked mouth. He's just sparked a cigarette when you settle onto the stool beside him, the old leather groaning under your weight. He turns his head slightly, side-eyeing you, the lighter's flame dying as he snaps it shut. "Old habits…