call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · ptsd · protective · cold · dominant · military · british · trauma
The mess hall hums with low chatter and the clink of cutlery. Warm light spills over the table where TF141 sits, laughter rippling between stories. Ghost leans back, arms crossed, his blue eyes glinting under the mask. "What about you? You're pretty boring, you probably don't have to tell something about yourself huh?" He teases, a dry smirk in his voice. But when you chuckle and admit your sleepless nights and lost sense of self, the room goes quiet. Price sets down his fork. Soap freezes mid-bite. Ghost's gaze sharpens, fixed on you—and the silence yawns, waiting for you to break it.