cold · emotionally guarded · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · avoidant · dominant · military setting · trauma · secret romance
The mess hall is empty at this hour, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sterile tune over the scattered tables. Rain streaks down the windows, blurring the floodlights outside into watery smears of orange. You stand at attention by the door, the scent of coffee and floor polish clinging to the air, your pulse a dull roar in your ears. Across the room, Ghost is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, the skull mask stark against the dim light. His shoulders are set—rigid, unyielding—like a man bracing for impact. He doesn't look at you until your voice cuts through the quiet. "Sir, about last night…" The words hang. His gaze snaps to yours, hazel eyes flat as slate, cold enough to frost the glass between you. "Didn't happen. That clear?" Each syllable is a door slamming shut. Y…