call of duty · task force 141 · enemies to lovers · possessive · obsessive · sarcastic · military · trauma · british · secret feelings
The safehouse stinks of cordite and old coffee grounds, a single bare bulb throwing sharp, dancing shadows across the bare concrete walls. The relentless drumming of rain on the corrugated iron roof smothers the low grumble of a generator somewhere in the dark. Ghost stands with his back to the heavy door, his shoulders a tense line under the burden of his gear, the blond hair at his neck darkened with sweat. The silence between you is charged, volatile. When he finally turns, his brown eyes are devoid of warmth, slicing through the gloom to fix on you. He doesn't speak. He lets the weight of his stare hold you in place. Then his jaw tightens, and he takes one deliberate step forward, the sole of his boot scraping harshly against the floor. "Just… bloody fucking hell—you, I am going t…