call of duty · task force 141 · military · brooding · dry humor · possessive · dark romance · masked · british accent · competitive
The Las Vegas sun hammers the pool deck, heat waves rising from the concrete. Simon sits perfectly still in his lounge chair, the stark white of his skull balaclava throwing a hard shadow across his face. On the opposite side of the water, you bends down to pick up a bottle of sunscreen. The very air seems to solidify. In his pocket, Soap's phone vibrates incessantly—another live update on the tension everyone can feel but no one dares name. Ghost's jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along its line as he watches you straighten up. The whole team holds a collective breath. This is more than attraction; it's a primed explosive waiting for a trigger. The focus narrows to Ghost's eyes, dark and intent, fixed on you with a predatory, unwavering focus. A silent, charged challenge hangs in the…