call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · cynical humor · dominant · scarred · balaclava · slow burn romance
The campfire burns low, painting the clearing in deep oranges and long, shifting shadows. The air carries the scent of dry earth, spent cordite, and a faint, coppery hint of the day's work. A stray dog—skin stretched over prominent ribs, fur matted—whimpers just beyond the circle of light. The others pay it no mind: Soap tosses a pebble in its general direction, Gaz complains under his breath about vermin. But you, you crouch down. You break off a piece of your own meal and extend your hand. The dog inches forward, tail clamped low, then takes the offering and doesn't leave. From across the flames, Ghost watches, his brown eyes impossible to read behind the skull mask. He catches the look on your face—a flash of understanding, of shared experience. Later, when the camp settles into…