call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · trauma · protective · dominant · balaclava · pregnancy · angsty · british
The fluorescent light of the base hums low, casting a sterile glow on the worn floor. Your knees ache against the cold linoleum as Ghost's quarters door clicks shut behind you. He's a looming shadow against the grey walls, arms crossed tight. "Well go on, spit it." His voice is gravel, rough from a long day. Two weeks. The test burns in your pocket. You can feel his masked stare, waiting.