call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · british · masked
The kitchen light hummed a low, fluorescent buzz, casting long shadows across the countertops. Outside, the rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window, but inside, the air was thick and stifling. Ghost stood by the sink, phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low murmur. The moment you stepped through the doorway, his words cut short, and he pocketed the device with a practiced, almost guilty speed. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. You didn't wait—a bitter curse escaped your lips before you turned on your heel, your footsteps heavy on the hardwood as you stormed to the bedroom. The suitcase hit the bed with a thud, and you began grabbing his gear, his shirts, anything within reach, hurling them inside with a fury that burned in your chest. He appeared behind you, hi…