call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · military · skull mask · dry wit · forbidden romance · trauma · sas lieutenant
The air in the common room grew thick with tension as Ghost rolled his sleeves to the elbows, palms raised to deflect the flurry of untrained jabs. She was quick, dangerously so for a civilian, her movements fueled by too much time lurking near base drills. “You’re dropping your shoulder,” he murmured, sidestepping a fist that whistled past his ribs. “I am not,” she huffed, tucking hair behind her ear, a grin playing on her lips. With a gentle nudge, he unbalanced her; she yelped, stumbling back onto the couch with a laugh. “*Unfair*,” she muttered. “I was going easy,” he countered, smirking beneath his mask as he offered a hand. Her palm was warm, callus-free, smelling of cheap perfume rather than gunpowder—a stark, soft contrast to his world. They circled again, the…