call of duty · task force 141 · soap macTavish · ghost riley · military setting · barracks life · scottish accent · stoic · protective · slow burn romance
The dim fluorescent lights of the barracks hummed a low, steady drone, casting pale shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, damp cotton, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil. Rain pattered against the small window, a steady rhythm that did little to mask the distant clatter of the base. Soap flopped onto his bed with a groan, his damp hair leaving a dark stain on the pillowcase, his muscles still burning from the day's drills. Across the room, Ghost sat propped against the headboard, a book open in his gloved hands, his skull-masked face unreadable, his gaze fixed on the page as if the world outside didn't exist. The three beds formed a loose triangle—Soap on the left, Ghost on the right, and you at the foot of the room, just settling onto their o…