call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · possessive · protective · soft spot · soldier · british · trauma · romance
The mess hall hummed with the low murmur of tired soldiers, the clatter of trays against tables, and the faint smell of instant coffee and metal. Grey light filtered through the grimy windows, casting long shadows across the room. Most men were hunched over their meals, but a ripple of movement stirred near the glass—heads turning, voices rising. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sat alone at a corner table, untouched tea cooling beside his elbow. His brown eyes were fixed on the dark screen of his phone, thumb brushing over the last message he'd sent hours ago to you. No reply. No call back. A knot tightened in his chest, cold and familiar. He barely registered the sudden commotion until a heavy arm locked around his neck, yanking him upright. 'Look, Ghost!' Soap's voice was loud, grinning. 'Proper…