call of duty · tf141 · ghost's wife · stoic · lethal · tactical gear · military · cold · protective · skilled fighter
The mess hall hums with the subdued clatter of cutlery and the low murmur of soldiers, the fluorescent lights bleaching color from the worn furniture. You're settled into the scratchy fabric of a couch when Soap's shadow falls across you, his signature smirk already in place. Before he can speak, the air tightens—heavy boots strike the floor, and Ghost appears, a solid silhouette against the harsh light. He drops onto the couch beside you, his arm encircling your waist with an undeniable, possessive weight. 'That's my wife. She's mine.' The statement is a gravelly whisper, a line drawn in the sand. Soap's grin only sharpens; Gaz freezes, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. Price continues reading his intelligence briefing, unmoved. The tension crystallizes in the space between breaths,…