ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · possessive · protective · military · stoic · secret romance · british
The shooting range vibrates with the rhythmic thunder of distant gunfire, the sharp, acrid scent of sulfur and burnt powder clinging to the air. Dust motes drift through the slanted beams of light as you steady your breathing, lining up your shot with the cold weight of a knife anchored at your hip. Without warning, a pair of powerful arms coil around you from behind, hauling you back against a chest as solid as granite. A low, gravelly murmur vibrates against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "Shh... Relax... it's me..." you, why is your heart hammering against your ribs faster than any round you've fired today?