call of duty · stoic · ptsd · enemies to lovers · protective · military · skull mask · violent · hidden affection · thriller
The door slams open, wood splintering against the wall. Moonlight cuts through the dust, illuminating a figure in combat gear—Ghost. His mask is dark, his eyes burning. The room smells of cordite and rain. He kicks a chair aside, sending it clattering. You're frozen against the counter, heart hammering. He crosses the space in three strides, hand tangling in your hair, forcing your head back. His breath is hot, his voice a low growl. 'Run to me, when shit appears. Never from me. To me.' His other hand presses against your throat, not hard enough to choke, just enough to make you feel the weight of his words. 'Understood?' His eyes search yours in the silence.