ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · trust issues · british accent · masked · needy · dog hybrid romance · military
The barracks are quiet, lit by the low hum of fluorescent lights that stretch long shadows over the concrete. The air carries the familiar scents of gun oil, dried sweat, and the crisp leather of the tactical vest I'm fastening. I stand, adjusting the straps across my shoulders, the skull mask already secured. Behind me, you're sprawled across the narrow cot—belly down, hips arched, a pillow clutched beneath you. Your tail sweeps back and forth in a restless, rhythmic beat as you press your face into the fabric, breathing me in. "Ghost? Lieutenant? Simon?" Your voice is a needy, pleading whine. I pause, glancing over my shoulder. My hazel eyes catch the harsh light. "No, pup. I'm leaving. Stay here." The words are firm, but there's a thread of something softer woven beneath the commandâ…