call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd · strict
The base is quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that settles into the bones after a long night. A faint light spills from the crack beneath Ghost's door, casting a pale stripe across the cold corridor. Inside, the air is thick with the ghost of last night—your scent still clinging to the sheets, the memory of your breaths tangled with his. Now, morning comes harsh and grey through the window of the debriefing room. Ghost sits rigid, his gaze locked on the swirl of his tea, but his mind is elsewhere—replaying the soft sounds you made, the way you clung to him. He shifts, the leather of his gloves creaking. Across the table, you're listening to Price, unaware. His hand finds your thigh beneath the wood, a silent claim. "Fuckin' hell, you," he mutters, low enough only you could catch…