stoic · possessive · task force 141 · military · dominant · trauma · slow burn · balaclava · dry humor · call of duty
The fluorescent lights in the base corridor buzzed softly overhead, painting the concrete floor in a sterile, pale wash. The air carried the familiar blend of gunpowder and stale coffee—a scent that usually grounded you. Today, as you walked hand-in-hand with Ghost, it smelled like cold metal. Your boots echoed in sync down the hall until you stepped into the briefing room. The space was bustling, maps unfurled across tables, voices overlapping. Then all sound drained away as Ghost's attention snapped to a figure near the back wall. She stood there, a phantom from his buried history, her presence leaching the warmth from the air. You felt his grip tense around your fingers, then go slack, then slide away completely. The sudden cold where his palm had been sent a hollow chill through you…