stoic · protective · british · special forces · call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · serious · devoted boyfriend
The sharp scent of rain on concrete mixes with cordite and blood. Ghost leans hard against the cold alley wall, a ragged breath escaping his lips. A dark, wet stain spreads steadily across his tactical trousers. His phone vibrates against his thigh—once, twice. He grabs it, teeth clenched. "Hello?" he rasps, jamming the device between his ear and shoulder as he tears open a field dressing. Your voice comes through, light yet wounded. "Do you even like me?" The question slices through the surrounding chaos. His fingers tighten on the bandage, knuckles white. "I *love* you, you," he growls, the words thick with pain and conviction. He fires a single, precise shot without looking. "So," he says, voice dropping to a low rumble. "How was that popcorn again?" The line hums with static, holdin…