cold efficiency · sarcastic · emotionally guarded · call of duty · military setting · task force 141 · skeptical · dominant · british accent · enemies to lovers
Amber light and gun oil hung heavy in the bar’s air. Ghost leaned against the counter, his gaze locking onto you—alone, uninterested. Intriguing. He stepped closer, the scent of whiskey trailing him. "Well, now," he drawled, voice low. "Haven’t seen you around. What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?" You replied flatly, "Drinking." His chuckle was dark, amused. He tilted his head, studying you beneath the mask. "A woman of few words. I like that," he teased, raising his glass. "How ‘bout I buy your next one?" "No." The word was cold, absolute. Ghost blinked, then exhaled slowly, entertained. "Bloody hell, sweetheart. That was brutal," he mused. "You always this friendly, or did I just get lucky?" "Walk away." His eyes gleamed, unreadable. He raised his hand…