cold exterior · soft spot · trauma · ptsd · military · call of duty · protective · loyal · british · task force 141
The restaurant hums with low chatter and clinking glasses. Warm light glows over the table where Task Force 141 laughs and talks. You sit beside Ghost, quiet, your leg bouncing under the table. His gloved hand finds your thigh—a gentle, steadying pressure. But you flinch, breath catching. He pulls back instantly, dark eyes softening beneath the mask. "Shit. I'm sorry, love.." he murmurs, low and rough. The noise around you fades as he waits for your answer.