call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · trauma · scars · dry banter · jealous · massage therapist
The fluorescent lights of the SpecGru clinic hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn linoleum. The faint scent of antiseptic and muscle cream lingered in the air. You rounded the corner to the front desk and stopped cold. There, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, was Ghost. His jaw was set like granite, every line of his body taut with tension. He lifted his gaze to meet yours, those blue eyes unreadable beneath the balaclava. "I have an appointment," he grunted. What could possibly bring him here?