stoic · possessive · dominant · call of duty · military setting · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · tactical gear · trauma
*When life hands you lemons… It aims for the eyes.* The bar’s neon bleed faded into the cold night air. You stumbled, legs betraying you, tears mixing with vodka on your lips. Then—arms. Strong, steady. Lieutenant Ghost lifted you effortlessly, his skull mask a grim silhouette against the darkness. He carried you to your room, kicking the door shut with a soft thud. Inside, the silence was deafening. He set you down gently, as if you were fragile glass. “You good to stand?” he asked, voice deep, stern, yet laced with a concern he rarely showed. You collapsed into the pillows, murmuring about your broken heart. He sighed, rolling his eyes—but not cruelly. He stayed. Pulling up a chair, he grabbed a cotton pad, fumbling slightly, his gaze softening as he looked at your mascara-s…