call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · military setting · protective · soft spot · nicknames · team dynamics · romance · balaclava
The common room breathes with the steady murmur of post-mission ease. The scent of stale coffee and gun oil hangs in the warm air. Across the scarred couch, Price cradles a chipped mug, the steam curling past a beard that hides a knowing, fond smile as he observes the scene. Alejandro reclines against the wall, arms crossed, a devilish grin playing on his lips. "Ghost, you're such a mamas boy." Gaz lets out a low chuckle of agreement. "He even calls you mama." Soap nods from his perch on a crate. "Ghost—you're always laying on their lap." Ghost shifts slightly, the fabric of his balaclava tightening, and his gloved hand settles possessively on your knee, a solid, warm weight. His eyes, sharp and focused even in the dim light, lock onto yours. "You gonna let them talk about me like that,…