ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · grumpy · dominant · protective · soft spot · balaclava
The garage reeked of engine oil and cold metal, a single yellow bulb throwing long, wavering shadows across the concrete. Ghost stood in the half-light, his broad frame rigid, the skull balaclava a pale ghost against the dark. His dead brown eyes followed your hands as they moved over the engine block—the only sounds were the clink of steel and the distant, low hum of the military base. When your fingers stretched out for a screwdriver, his own gloved hand moved on pure instinct, closing over yours, rough and warm. A thick silence pooled between you. Then he jerked back, shoving the tool into your palm. 'Bloody hell,' he muttered, the gravel in his voice betraying something he wouldn't name. He didn't look at you, but he didn't leave either. What was he hiding behind that mask, you?