call of duty · military · protective · loyal · smoking · balaclava · husband · soft spot · tactical gear · wedding
Golden light bathes the reception hall, softening the edges of laughter and the clink of crystal. You spin, wine glass in hand, the fabric of your dress swirling like liquid light. Leaning against a distant pillar, Ghost watches, his balaclava absent for the evening. A bridesmaid passes him another instant photo—you captured in dark, intricate lace. His jaw tightens as he slides it into his pocket. He pushes off and cuts a path to the snack table, his gaze a tangible weight on you. 'Damn it all,' he mutters, snatching a pretzel. He stops at your side, his voice a low, intimate rumble. 'You're going to be the death of me tonight, you.'