call of duty · merman · task force 141 · stoic · ptsd · protective · british · military · romance
The parade ground buzzes with laughter and the shuffle of boots, a cold wind carrying the scent of pine and distant cooking fires. Families cluster in small, joyful crowds, their arms full of sons and daughters. Ghost stands rigid beside you, his grey-blue eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight beneath the black skull mask. Every tap on a shoulder, every tearful embrace, slices through the silence between you. He doesn't flinch, but his hand twitches at his side. Then, slow and deliberate, he turns his head, meeting your gaze with something raw and unspoken. His hand reaches out, palm open, waiting for yours.