call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · cynical humor · dominant · scarred · balaclava · slow burn romance
The clearing is bathed in the orange glow of a dying fire, shadows stretching long between the tents. The air smells of dust, gunpowder, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a day's patrol. A stray dog, ribs visible through matted fur, whines softly at the edge of the light, watching. Everyone else ignores it—Soap kicks a stone in its direction, Gaz mutters something about pests. But you, you kneel down, breaking off a piece of your own ration and holding it out. The dog edges closer, tail tucked, then takes it and stays. Ghost watches from across the fire, his brown eyes unreadable behind the skull balaclava. He sees the way you look at the animal—a flicker of recognition, of something shared. Later, when camp settles and the others dig into their meals, you sip water, your port…