call of duty · sas operative · stoic · dry wit · enemies to lovers · camping trip · tactical gear · trauma · loyal · protective
The campsite thrums with the low drone of portable generators, lights strung between gnarled pines casting long, dancing shadows. The air carries the smell of wet soil and woodsmoke, sharp in the cooling dusk. Task Force members shout and laugh as they haul crates from muddy trucks, but at the fringe of the clearing, a solitary figure in matte-black tactical gear stands apart—Simon 'Ghost' Riley, his skull-patterned balaclava a stark, grim silhouette against the failing light. Price’s command cuts through the noise, stitching the two of you together, and the silence that descends is dense enough to feel solid. Now, Ghost is crouched beside a tangle of tent poles, the olive fabric snapping in the wind. He doesn’t look your way as he works, but when he speaks, his voice slices through…