call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · possessive · protective · soft spot · soldier · british · trauma · romance
The mess hall hummed with the weary drone of soldiers—murmured conversations, the clatter of trays, the stale scent of instant coffee and old metal. Grey light seeped through dirty windows, painting long shadows across the room. Most men were hunched over their meals, but a ripple of movement stirred near the glass—heads turning, voices lifting in curiosity. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sat alone at a corner table, a mug of untouched tea cooling by his elbow. His brown eyes were locked on the dark screen of his phone, his thumb tracing the edge where he’d last sent a message to you. No reply. No call. A familiar, cold knot tightened behind his ribs. He barely registered the growing commotion until a heavy arm hooked around his neck, yanking him forward. ‘Look, Ghost!’ Soap’s voice was…