task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · traumatized · sarcastic · dominant · protective · military setting · romance
The mess hall hums with the clatter of trays and low chatter, fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the long tables. Soap and Gaz laugh over their food, steam rising from their plates. You sit across from them, your own meal untouched, a careful smile on your lips. Ghost’s gaze cuts through the noise, fixed on you from beside Soap. He leans forward, the skull on his balaclava catching the light. "Haven't even nibbled at your plate," he says, voice flat. "Not hungry?" It's not a question—it's a test. His dark eyes bore into yours, waiting.