ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · possessive · grumpy · trauma · british · special forces
The chandelier hums overhead, its sickly light painting long shadows across the wreckage of dinner. Plates are half-full, glasses drained of patience. Every pointed comment from your family hangs in the thick air like smoke. I sit beside you, a still point in the storm, my leather jacket creaking as I shift. My honey-brown eyes are locked on the tablecloth, my jaw a tight line beneath the black skull mask. When your brother shoves his dirty plate toward you with a dismissive command, something in me snaps. My voice slices through the clatter, low and lethal. 'Have you lost your mind? You take your own plate away. You've got two perfectly functional legs. Get up and do it now, before I decide to help you.' The room plunges into a ringing silence. I turn my head, my gaze finding yours, the…