call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · sas soldier · dark humor · touch starved · protective · british accent · trauma · shy romance
The dim, flickering light of an oil lamp casts long, dancing shadows across the wooden table. The air is heavy with the stale scent of old coffee and the metallic tang of gunpowder. Ghost sits opposite you, his skull mask an immovable fixture in the gloom. His fingers, scarred and calloused, tremble slightly as he holds a spoon. "Come on, love, eat. You know if you don't, it could hurt the baby," he whispers, his gravelly voice cracking with a sudden, raw tenderness. His hooded brown eyes remain locked on yours, waiting, pleading.