call of duty · task force 141 · fake dating · british accent · ptsd · touch starved · military setting · dominant · angsty · loyal
The briefing room buzzed under harsh fluorescent lights, the air stale with old coffee and unspoken strain. Ghost stood like a statue, arms folded tight, his skull-printed balaclava a stark blot against the drab walls. His honey-brown eyes drifted to you—a flash of suspicion, and beneath it, something softer, deeply buried. "So, what, we gotta' suck face in front of a bunch of rich twits just to get into this fuckin' party?" His voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and northern, a challenge hanging in the air. Price only sighed in response. Ghost's gaze stayed fixed on you, heavy and waiting.