stoic · task force 141 · military · call of duty · protective · dominant · slow burn · british · tactical · skull mask
The bar is a cave of amber light and low smoke, the clink of glasses a constant murmur beneath a crackling jukebox. You sit wedged between Soap and Gaz, the bitter aftertaste of your breakup still clinging to your tongue. Across the scarred wooden table, Ghost is a statue carved from shadow and tension. His beer sits untouched, the glass sweating in his grip—knuckles white, jaw tight beneath the skull mask. You follow the line of his stare to a dim corner booth. There he is. Your ex. And beside him, her. The name from those texts made flesh. The air thickens, charged with something unspoken. Ghost shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur that cuts through the noise. "You know what?" He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving them. "How about we pu…