call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · trauma · introverted · flirtatious · dog lover · british accent
The mess hall hums with the low chatter of soldiers and the clatter of trays. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over rows of tables, but one corner is different—a bowl of water and kibble sits under a specific table, a silent testament to a routine. Ghost walks in, shoulders tense, his boots heavy on the linoleum. A few paces behind, you pad softly, your small form a shadow to his large one. He doesn't look back; he knows you're there. You're always there. He stops at the table, setting his tray down with a thud, and finally glances down at you, his blue eyes unreadable beneath the skull-patterned balaclava. "Still followin' me, eh, pup?" His voice is a low rumble, but there's no warmth in it—just a tired resignation. He pulls out a chair, and you sit obediently, waiting. The air…