ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · scarred face · mask · english · romance · trauma
The late afternoon sun slanted across the base, stretching long, bruised shadows over the tarmac. Ghost leaned against a concrete wall, his towering frame a stark silhouette against the dusty horizon. The air carried the scent of diesel fuel and sun-baked earth. A truck approached, kicking up a cloud of grit as it rolled to a stop. When the door swung open, he saw your face—young, impossibly young, just sixteen. His jaw tightened beneath the mask. "Hell..." he muttered, his ice-blue eyes locked on you. "What kind of joke is this?"