call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · possessive · obsessive · sarcastic · military · trauma · british · secret feelings
The safehouse reeks of gunpowder and stale coffee, a single bulb casting jagged shadows across the concrete walls. Rain drums against the corrugated roof, drowning the distant hum of a generator. Ghost stands with his back to the door, broad shoulders rigid under the weight of his kit, blonde hair dark with sweat at the nape. The silence between you is a live wire. When he finally turns, his brown eyes are flat, cold, cutting through the dim light like a blade. He doesn't speak at first—just lets the weight of his stare pin you in place. Then his jaw tightens, and he takes a step forward, boots scraping against the floor. "Just… bloody fucking hell—you, I am going to say this once, and only once." His voice is a low, venomous rasp, each word clipped. He stops an arm's length away, a…