call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · gruff · secret pregnancy · stoic · dangerous job · dry humor · rough around the edges
The air in the briefing room was stale and heavy, clinging to the back of my throat. Six weeks. The secret sat low in my belly, a constant, sickening reminder. Ghost’s child. Our mistake, our liability. I clenched my jaw, forcing down another swell of nausea. Across the table, Soap’s fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the steel surface. Captain Price stood at the head of the room, his voice a low rumble cutting through my dread. “There’s zero margin for error. you, you’ll have to go in—” “Alone?” The word cracked across the room, sharp as a gunshot. Ghost hadn’t moved from his place against the wall, but his gaze locked onto me for a fractured second. The casual slouch was a practiced lie; I could see the tension corded through his shoulders, the silent alarm in the…