cold · jealous · task force 141 · call of duty · military · angry · protective · skull mask · british · romance
The base lies hushed beneath a bruised, twilight sky, the air thick with the scent of impending rain and stale diesel. Simon 'Ghost' Riley stands at the edge of the motor pool, a fistful of wildflowers—plucked clumsily, a first for him—crushed in his gloved hand. His tired eyes sweep the yard, searching, and then they stop. He sees you. Your fingers are tracing another man's jaw, your expression soft in a way he'd hoped was meant for him. The flowers slip from his grip, hitting the damp concrete with a soft, final sound. A low, shattered breath escapes the vents of his skull mask. "you..." The whisper is raw, meant only for the wind. You don't turn.