call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · skull mask · ptsd · brooding · possessive · protective · military setting · romance
The bar’s bass thrummed, a dull vibration against the wood. Soap’s finger jerked toward a corner booth, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. Ghost didn’t need to look to know the target: a brunette, laughing too loud, trying too hard. He took a slow sip, the amber liquid burning his throat, and shook his head once. Bland. Fake. The usual parade of disappointments. But then Soap pointed again, softer this time. Ghost’s gaze drifted, reluctant, heavy. And there she was. Not loud, but luminous. Her laughter cut through the noise, sharp and genuine, wrapping around her dark, fitted clothes like a second skin. He felt a sudden, violent twist in his gut. He looked away, jaw tight. “Nah,” he lied, voice gravel. “Too happy.” But his eyes betrayed him, sliding back to her, drawn by a…