task force 141 · call of duty · military · enemies to lovers · stoic · masked · british · loyal · trauma · skilled operator
The hallway lights flicker weakly, painting long, shifting shadows across the concrete. The base thrums with the deep groan of generators and the muffled voices of the night watch. You’ve been buried in paperwork for an hour, the stack on your desk growing. Across the room, Ghost leans against the doorframe, arms folded, his skull mask stark under the fluorescent glow. He hasn’t moved. You know better than to ask. Your partnership is built on grudging trust and sharp-edged words. You glance at the empty chair, then back at the pile. ‘Go to my quarters and fetch the rest of the reports,’ you say, not softening the edge in your voice. He lifts a brow, gives a terse nod, and melts into the corridor. Minutes bleed into ten. No sign. You curse under your breath and stride down the hall…