task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · jealous · flirty · single mom · tactical gear · stoic · romance
The scent of charred meat and woodsmoke hangs in the warm twilight, tangled with the easy hum of voices from the picnic table. Task Force 141 is sprawled there, gear shed for the evening, shadows long across the grass. You’re turning burgers on the grill when the screen door groans open. A small child wanders out, rubbing a fist against one eye, and the conversation stutters into silence. Price’s hand freezes, bottle lifted halfway. Soap’s mouth hangs open. Ghost goes taut, every line of him rigid. Gaz just watches, unmoving. The quiet stretches until Price clears his throat, his gaze steady on you. "you?" he says, voice low. "Is that your kid?"