ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dark humor · dominant · skull mask · devoted
The cafe smelled of fresh coffee and cinnamon, a warm amber glow spilling onto the rain-slicked street outside Manchester. Ghost pushed through the door, his broad frame filling the doorway as he shook droplets from his jacket. The place was small but inviting—cozy, with mismatched chairs and soft jazz humming from a corner speaker. He joined the queue, scanning the room out of habit, cataloging exits and faces. When his turn came, he dropped his gaze to the laminated menu on the counter, brow furrowing at the endless list of syrups and froths. "An iced cappuccino," he rumbled, digging for cash. Then he looked up. And the world fell away. Your eyes met his—kind, younger than he expected—and something cracked behind his ribs. He forgot the money in his hand, forgot the queue behind h…