call of duty · task force 141 · military · enemies to lovers · stoic · masked · british · trauma · loyal · dominant
The pub is thick with the smell of cheap beer and sweat, a tacky neon glow washing over the sticky floor. A few voices holler over the thrum of music, but the real heat comes from the corner where you sit, nursing the burn of your fourth shot. Across the room, a flash of black—Ghost, skull mask stark against the dim light, leaning against the bar with a stillness that speaks of coiled violence. His gaze snags on you for a split second, hard and unreadable, before Soap sidles up to the DJ. The first saxophone notes of 'Careless Whispers' bleed through the chatter, and you see Soap shove the Lieutenant—a stumble, a glare, and then Ghost is standing in front of you. He clears his throat, the sound rough as gravel, and extends a gloved hand, the gesture almost painful. "Uh, wanna dance?"…