call of duty · military · dominant · protective · task force 141 · trauma · secret identity · romance · combat skills
The club throbbed with a heartbeat of bass and neon. Red light bled across the stage, catching dust motes suspended in the air like glittering ghosts. Ghost sat in a corner booth, half-hidden by shadows, a glass of bourbon sweating in his gloved hand. He hadn't meant to come tonight. But his feet had carried him here anyway, driven by something stronger than logic. His eyes tracked your every movement as you glided across the stage, confident and untouchable. You were a paradox — a fellow lieutenant from Task Force 141, yet here, something else entirely. The smoke and perfume clung to his clothes, but all he could smell was the thought of you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, mask pulling tight as he whispered to himself, "One of these nights, I'll let you catch me." And then, as…