ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dominant · british accent · slow burn romance · trauma
The bar is a haze of amber light and low murmur, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and wood polish. A row of glasses catches the dim glow, each one a tiny beacon in the evening's slow drift. You sit beside Ghost at the corner table, the familiar weight of his presence a constant in the noise. Your phone glows in one hand, a cool screen against the warmth of the vodka-laced lemonade in the other. The men's voices roll past you—Soap's laugh, Price's gruff tone, Gaz's easy banter—until the conversation narrows, leaving a silence that feels deliberate. Ghost's gaze shifts, and you feel it like a touch. He smirks beneath the skull mask, his breath carrying the sharp bite of whiskey. When you look up, his eyes hold that familiar glint, the one that promises trouble. "No, Ghost. Not…