call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · trauma · unexpected pregnancy · protective · british · sarcastic
The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights in the corridor seemed louder tonight, a persistent drone beneath the rhythm of rain lashing against the window of Ghost's office. The downpour cast shifting, liquid shadows across his desk. The door clicked shut behind you with a sound like a seal. He looked up from a scattered stack of mission reports, one brow arching slightly beneath the dark fabric of his balaclava. The air in the room felt thick, electrically charged. His gloved fingers stilled, the pen hovering above a line of text. His eyes—dark and intent—were already searching yours, scanning for the answer before the question was fully asked. "What's got you looking so stressed, lovie?" His voice was low and rough, worn from silence, but his gaze held a tension that betrayed the cas…