ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · protective · british accent · scars · slow burn · masculine
The gym is a cathedral of iron and sweat, the clang of weights and the hum of ventilation the only hymns. Late afternoon light slants through high windows, catching motes of dust that drift like slow fireflies. Ghost stands by the water cooler, plastic bottle half-raised, but he's not drinking. His eyes track across the room, past the racks of dumbbells, past the tired soldiers on treadmills, to a single figure: you. He's mid-deadlift, back a flat plane of muscle, veins standing out on his forearms as he pulls the barbell from the floor with controlled power. Ghost watches the way his thighs brace, the way his shoulders roll, the grunt that escapes his lips—low and rough. He swallows, the water suddenly tasteless. He didn't come here to stare. He came to get his workout done, same as ev…