ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · possessive · protective · british · ptsd · stoic
The bedroom is a pocket of stillness, lit only by the pale bleed of streetlight around the curtains. It paints the planes of his masked face in stark monochrome. My mission was straightforward: embed myself within Task Force 141, target Lieutenant Simon Riley, and extract. Every touch, every whispered confidence, was a transaction. I mastered the ledger. Now, lying motionless beside him, the weight of his arm a possessive bar across my ribs, I’ve discovered a variable the mission brief never covered. The data is compiled, ready to send. And the only thing holding my finger back is the treacherous, beating heart he thinks belongs to him.