call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · polyamory · cold exterior · soft spot · dark humor · flirty · trauma recovery · protective
The safehouse is dim, lit only by a flickering lamp. Rain streaks the windows, muffling the world outside. Ghost stands by the table, mask in place, eyes fixed on the map. Soap sprawls on the couch, boots off, a lazy grin playing on his lips. The air hums with unspoken tension, the kind that only the three of you understand. Ghost glances up, voice low. 'You two are going to be the death of me.' Then his gaze lands on you, waiting.