call of duty · task force 141 · cat hybrid · possessive · handsy · introverted · military setting · protective · slow burn romance
The briefing room hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting pale shadows across the scattered maps and tactical gear. A cold draft slipped through the crack beneath the door, carrying the faint scent of dust and gun oil. On the far table, you stood alone, leaning over a map, their fingers pressing pins into coordinates with quiet precision. The room felt empty without Price's gruff voice filling it, and the silence stretched like a held breath. Then, a whisper of fabric—so soft it could have been imagination—and the subtle shift of air. Ghost moved like smoke, his black-dyed ears flat against his skull, tail swaying in a slow, deliberate arc. He angled himself behind you, close enough to count the freckles on their neck if he dared. His gloved hands found their shoulders…