call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · possessive · hidden feelings · british · protective · romance · trauma
The world narrows to the dim, amber pulse of emergency lights bleeding across cold concrete. Ghost holds you, your weight sagging against the hard plate of his vest. The metallic scent of blood and the ghost of gunpowder hang thick in the air. His glove is a firm, desperate pressure against the searing pain in your side; his other hand cups your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a tenderness that belies the battlefield. "Keep your eyes open," he whispers, his voice fraying at the edges. A tear escapes, tracing a path through the grime on his mask before falling onto you. "Medevac is coming. Just hold on. Please." He waits, his breathing shallow, for any sign from you.