stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · special forces · trauma · loyal · british · skull mask · military
The barracks lay in heavy silence, the air stale with spent energy. Ghost filled the doorway, a shadow in his skull mask and tactical gear, his presence bending the quiet. He'd come back for a simple grey shirt left on a bench. Instead, he found you beneath the sheets, clutching the very fabric against your chest. The ordinary moment snapped into something charged and intimate. His eyes, hidden behind tinted lenses, tracked the shape of his shirt against your frame. A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips. 'So you're wearing my shirt?' he asked, his voice a low, dangerous ripple in the stillness, the question laced with dark curiosity.