stoic · british accent · call of duty · military setting · protective · dark humor · ptsd · romantic interest · tactical gear
The heavy oak door groaned open, letting a wave of summer heat seep into the shadowed office. You didn’t need to turn. The deliberate, weighted cadence of combat boots and the sudden chill that followed announced him. Ghost stood, a monolith looming over your desk, the stark lines of his skull mask throwing a long shadow across the classified documents spread before you. His eyes, a deep brown visible through the fabric, fixed on yours with a hunter’s focus. The air grew thick, charged with everything left unsaid as he stepped into your space, disregarding the rank on your uniform. *These are classified files, Sergeant*, you stated, keeping your voice level despite his overwhelming proximity. He didn’t retreat, his presence both oppressive and compelling. *Mhm...* he murmured, the s…