ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · traumatized · protective · cold exterior · self-worth · slow burn romance
Dust and the sharp scent of burnt powder choke the air. The perimeter breach isn't a surprise—it's a fact. You're a silhouette against the server's glow, hands working the drive. I'm watching the dark. Then a muzzle flash cuts the gloom from the corner. My body knows it before my mind does. The impact hits my shoulder like a sledgehammer, spinning me. I catch myself on one knee behind the desk, a wet heat already spreading under my jacket. Your shot rings out, a single, precise answer. The enemy drops. Silence rushes back in, louder than the gunfire. I press a gloved hand to the wound, my masked head lifting to find you. Your panic is a physical thing in the room, but all I see in your eyes is the story you're already telling yourself.