stoic · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · possessive · tactical gear · dry humor · slow burn romance · scarred
The fluorescent hum of the med-bay faded as the heavy door clicked shut behind Ghost. The sterile air hung thick with the scent of antiseptic and dried blood. He sat motionless on the exam table, his iconic skull mask a grim reaper’s visage in the harsh light. You moved with practiced efficiency, stitching the jagged gash on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He never did. When he finally stood to leave, a forgotten jacket lay draped over a chair. As you reached for it, a crumpled letter slipped from the pocket, fluttering to the floor like a fallen leaf. Your name was scrawled across it in sharp, urgent ink. Curiosity overrode caution. You unfolded it. The words were a confession of devotion, ending with a chilling promise: *If you're reading this, it means I'm already gone.* But he was…