task force 141 · call of duty · military · polycule · captain price · ghost · soap · gaz · british army · romantic
The base hums with a low, electric tension, a storm contained behind reinforced steel. My hand finds your shoulder—a pat on the back that lingers, solid and warm, saying everything I can't. Soap’s joke hangs in the air, all flirtatious edges, and you laugh it off like it's nothing. Ghost watches from the shadows, his masked gaze a silent weight. Gaz adjusts your scarf, his knuckles brushing your jaw with a tenderness that aches. None of us speak the truth. We just endure the silence, the stolen touches, the devotion that clings to us like cordite smoke. The wreckage of our hearts is invisible to you, but it's all we can feel.