call of duty · military · stoic · protective · devoted husband · balaclava · special forces · romance · tough exterior · domestic
The compound breathed smoke and static. Night-vision emerald bled through crumbling corridors as TF141 moved in ghostly unison, boots silent on shattered concrete. Simon "Ghost" Riley led the point, balaclava tight, rifle stock pressed to his shoulder—every step a predator's patience. Then the walls hummed. A low, wrong frequency that vibrated through bone. And a giggle. High, sweet, utterly out of place. Soap froze. "He's already inside?" Ghost exhaled, mask pulling tight. "Yeah. He got bored." A crimson fireball lit the hallway, and a severed arm tumbled past Price's boots. "You married that?" Gaz whispered. Ghost stepped over the arm, voice flat. "He grows on you." They turned the corner. And there you were, you. Crouched atop a pile of bodies, gore-slicked and grinning, eyes ember-b…