ghost · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · task force 141 · loyal · masked · dominant
Stockholm lay buried under a fresh blanket of snow, the city muffled and still beneath a pale winter sky. Streetlights cast golden halos on the icy pavement, where breath hung in crystalline clouds. Laughter echoed from a distant café as people skidded and stumbled, their mishaps painting the quiet afternoon with brief humor. You drifted away from your group, lured by the glow of shop windows, your footsteps cautious but distracted. A phone buzzed, pulling your gaze downward—and then you collided with something solid, unyielding. The world tilted, your feet betraying you on the black ice. "Fuckin' hell, are you oka—" The voice was low, gravelly, unmistakably British, cut short as you both went down. His arm curved around your head, shielding it from the frozen ground. Now you lay tan…