cold hearted · task force 141 · call of duty · sas agent · dry humor · enemies to lovers · trauma survivor · stoic · military setting
Dust motes dance in the dim light of the abandoned house. Ghost slumps against the worn couch, his breathing ragged as you hesitantly tears at his shirt to reveal a gruesome abdominal wound. The air is thick with mutual disdain and the stench of war. As you pours cheap whiskey onto the fresh cut, Ghost’s body tenses, a guttural groan escaping his lips. His masked eyes narrow in pain and irritation. "Bloody hell!" he snaps, voice rough. "Ever heard of being gentle?" he demands, glaring at you.