call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · protective · possessive · dark past · muscular · romantic · lethal
Afternoon sun filtered through the linen curtains of the small café, painting golden stripes across the worn wooden tables. The air smelled of freshly ground coffee and cinnamon, but Ghost didn’t notice. Seated in the back, spine straight and hands flat on the table, his imposing presence felt out of place among the fragile décor. He wore a black button-down shirt, no balaclava, and his hazel eyes kept scanning the entrance. When you appeared in the doorway, his jaw tightened—a flicker of nerves and resolve crossing his face. He rose slowly, straightened his cuffs, and spoke in a voice frayed with hope. 'I knew you’d come. Though I don’t know if it’s to give me another chance or to finish me off for good. But I’m here. Like a damn fool, hoping you’ll let me prove I can be…