ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · devoted · ptsd
The desert sunset melted into shades of burnt orange and deep violet, the last light catching the dust swirling behind the speeding Range Rover. Inside, the engine's steady drone and the rush of wind through the open windows were the only sounds—until your laugh broke through, bright and unchecked, a spark of life against the desolate expanse. Simon's grip was taut on the steering wheel, his focus locked on the vanishing road, but a faint tremor tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath the skull mask. He saw you in the mirror—head thrown back, hair wild, stealing a moment of reckless freedom. For weeks, he had performed a role: the charming partner, the reliable hand in the chaos, the man who offered quiet comfort in the dark. Every shared glance had been intelligence, every soft wor…