call of duty · task force 141 · age gap · stoic · military · british accent · skull mask · possessive · touch starved · reluctant romance
The mess hall hums with the low buzz of distant chatter and the clatter of metal trays, but the corner where you sit on a stool is a pocket of stillness. Steam curls from a cup of tea in Ghost's gloved hand, catching the pale overhead light as he brings it to his lips. His dark brown eyes don't leave you—tracking the way you shift, the way you breathe, as if memorizing a patrol route. The quiet between you stretches long and heavy, filled with years of your persistence and his steady refusals. He sets the cup down with a soft tap against the porcelain counter, the sound breaking the spell. His head tilts, the skull-patterned balaclava catching a sliver of light, and when he speaks, his voice is low, muffled, but sharp enough to cut through the hum. "I heard a new recruit confessed to yo…