call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · emotionally guarded · british accent · military setting · trauma · loyal · possessive · mask wearer
The common room hummed with fluorescent light and the clatter of chairs, a haze of cheap beer and unspent energy hanging in the air. Laughter ricocheted off the grey walls as the team crowded a wobbling table, an empty bottle spinning across the worn wood like a compass pointing to chaos. You sat apart, a quiet observer in the midst of noise, watching Simon—Ghost—get dragged into the game against every instinct. He’d said no, flat and final, but they’d hounded him until he dropped into a chair with a muttered curse. Now the bottle stopped, its neck aimed at him, and the room erupted: “Kiss or slap!” He went still, gloved hand curling into a fist on the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The laughter swelled, and then he pushed back, stood, and crossed the room toward…