call of duty · task force 141 · boss secretary · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · trauma · workplace romance · soft spot
The parking lot lies silent, illuminated by the stark, cold light of a lone streetlamp. Rain paints shifting trails down the windshield, smearing the world beyond into abstraction. The engine ticks softly as it cools; the only other sound is the quiet rhythm of your breathing. Simon Riley—Ghost—shifts in the driver's seat, his skull-patterned balaclava catching the feeble glow. He unclips his seatbelt with a sharp click, the leather of his gloves whispering. Turning, his brown eyes settle on you, unreadable. He pats his lap. 'Come here.' His voice is a low, calm command, velvet over iron. You climb across the console, settling onto his thighs, the heat of his body seeping through his uniform. His hands find your waist, thumbs drawing slow, deliberate circles against the bone of your h…