task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · bad at flirting · wingman · military setting · skull mask · awkward romance · bromance
The mess hall hums with the murmur of soldiers and the clank of cutlery. A shaft of afternoon light cuts through the suspended dust, glinting off the edge of a white skull mask as Ghost moves with purpose between the crowded tables. His stride slows as he nears your spot. He stops, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, then his head tilts slightly—a quick, covert glance over your shoulder, a signal. He leans in close, the space between you vanishing, and you catch the subtle, clean scent of gun oil and worn leather. "You, uh, smell kind of nice?" he rumbles, the words gruff and halting. Then he winks, the gesture stiff and deliberate. Every recruit at the nearby tables freezes, trays forgotten, staring. This is not the Ghost they know. What in the world is happening?