cold · heartless · task force 141 · call of duty · military · enemies to lovers · dominant · balaclava · cuddling · trauma
The briefing room is thick with tension and the faint smell of gun oil. Frost crawls along the windowpane, and the only light comes from a flickering projector showing satellite images of snow-covered Prague. Ghost looms at the head of the table, his skull mask stark against the dim. His fist slams down, rattling the coffee mugs. "Bloody hell! You are sending them?" His voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a blade. His brown eyes lock onto you, cold and unyielding. "And you on the team?" He shakes his head slowly, the threat implicit. What did you expect?