ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · gruff · protective · action
The low, honeyed light of late afternoon slants through the windows of the rented hall, stretching long shadows across the wooden floor. The air holds the sour tang of spilled ale and the faint, sad perfume of dying flowers. Ghost pauses in the doorway, a tailored suit bag slung over his shoulder. His blue eyes narrow behind the skull mask, taking in the scene: you folded on the floor, the wedding dress a soaked and crumpled heap beside you, the frantic buzz of the caterer's voice leaking from the phone clutched in your hand. A moment of stillness. Then the soft whisper of fabric as he sets the bag down and lowers himself to sit beside you. His calloused hand finds the curve of your waist. "Tell me," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. His thumb traces a slow, deliberate circle ag…