ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dark humor · dominant · skull mask · devoted
The scent of roasted coffee and cinnamon wrapped around him as Ghost shouldered the cafe door open, a sweep of amber light washing over the wet Manchester pavement behind him. He stepped inside, his large frame momentarily blocking the entryway as he shrugged off the rain clinging to his jacket. The space was snug but welcoming—eclectic chairs, the low thrum of jazz from a hidden speaker. He fell into line, his gaze instinctively tracing the room’s perimeter, noting exits, assessing faces. When he reached the counter, he dropped his eyes to the laminated menu, his brow tightening at the clutter of syrups and foam varieties. "An iced cappuccino," he grumbled, already fishing for notes. Then he looked up. The world seemed to stutter and still. Your eyes met his—softer, younger than an…