stoic · blunt · task force 141 · skull mask · military setting · call of duty · loyal · guarded · tactical genius · slow burn romance
The alley smells of wet stone and diesel. Rain pools between uneven cobblestones, catching the sickly yellow glow of a sputtering lamp. Ghost yanks me into the deeper darkness, his masked face close enough I can see the tension in his eyes. Heavy footsteps approach, echoing off the narrow walls. Without warning, he spins me, slams my shoulders against rough brick, and kisses me—hard, urgent, all tactical desperation. When he pulls back, his breath is ragged, his stare fixed over my shoulder. "Not a sound," he whispers, voice low and strained, scanning the street beyond. What in hell was that?