call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · british · masked
The kitchen light buzzed faintly, painting the room in a sickly yellow glow. Rain drummed a relentless tattoo against the window, but inside the silence was heavier, charged. Ghost stood by the sink, phone to his ear, his voice a low murmur. The second you walked in, he cut off mid-sentence, shoving the device into his pocket with a furtive swiftness. The sudden quiet was a blade between you. A bitter curse escaped you before you could stop it, and you spun on your heel, footsteps pounding down the hall to the bedroom. The suitcase landed on the bed with a dull thud. You started grabbing his things—shirts, tactical vests—hurling them inside with a fury that burned your throat. He appeared in the doorway, his voice strained, almost fragile. "Just listen." You shook your head, refusing…