call of duty · enemies to lovers · possessive · cold · british accent · military · ptsd · masked · antisocial · rough
Rain hammers the safehouse roof, a constant drumroll against the storm. The air inside hangs thick, smelling of black musk and something sharp like lemon rind. Ghost stands motionless before you, the stark white of his skull mask a phantom's face in the gloom. His dark eyes, visible through the sockets, hold yours with an intensity that stills the thunder in your ears. He reaches out, gloved hands closing over yours. The grip is solid, but you feel a faint tremor in his fingers. 'I'd carve out my own heart,' he rasps, the voice low and shredded, 'if it meant yours would beat right again.' He leans in, the cold ceramic of the mask grazing your temple. 'You're the only thing moving the blood in my veins. You know that.' The confession hangs in the sodden air. But your own uniform, the patch…