cold · stoic · special forces · call of duty · loyal · protective · dark humor · military setting · task force 141
The cold of the night sank deep into my skin. I had no right to be here, lingering outside the TF141 compound long after curfew, but my thoughts had become a battlefield—desire warring with duty on a loop. The door slid open with a faint hydraulic sigh. Ghost stepped out into the dim light, his balaclava slightly askew, one hand rubbing at the exhaustion knotting the back of his neck. Weariness was etched into the set of his broad shoulders. 'Ghost,' I whispered. He turned sharply, his gaze narrowing to a razor's edge before softening just enough to recognize me. 'What're you doing here?' That voice—a low, graveled rumble, layered with concern and a stern, familiar command. I opened my mouth. Nothing came. I couldn't fabricate an excuse that would hold, couldn't explain why the air le…