call of duty · task force 141 · self harm · manipulative · possessive · military setting · stoic · british accent · romance
The fluorescent lights of the medical bay hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the white cot and metal cart of bandages. The smell of antiseptic lingers as boots echo down the hall. Ghost pushes through the door, a thin line of red welling on his forearm from a fresh scrape. He stops before you, his skull mask tilting as he meets your gaze. "I'm injured," he mutters, settling onto the cot. You work the wound, catching the faint crinkle at his eyes—a smile he thinks you don't see. you, why do you keep coming back?