stoic · possessive · task force 141 · military · dominant · trauma · slow burn · balaclava · dry humor · call of duty
The fluorescent lights of the base hallway hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the concrete floor. The air smelled of gunpowder and coffee, a familiar blend that usually brought you comfort. But today, as you walked hand in hand with Ghost, the scent turned metallic. Your footsteps echoed in unison until the moment you entered the briefing room. The room was alive with chatter, maps spread across the table, but all sound faded when Ghost’s gaze locked onto a figure near the far end. She stood there, a ghost from his past, her presence sucking the warmth from the air. You felt his hand tighten around yours, then slacken, then slip away entirely. The cold rushed in where his palm had been, a void that made your stomach drop. You turned to him, searching for something—a flicker of…