stoic · cold · protective · call of duty · military · task force 141 · skull mask · ptsd · loyal
The night air carried a sharp, clean chill, scented with damp earth and the wild perfume of unseen flowers. A thin crescent moon hung low, painting the deserted country road in shades of silver and deep shadow. Simon "Ghost" Riley moved with a steady, ground-eating stride, your weight settled across his shoulders, a warm and solid presence against his back. His tactical boots crunched rhythmically on the gravel path, each step deliberate, his grip firm beneath your thighs. You murmured something incoherent, your breath a warm mist against his ear, words slurring into the quiet. He let out a low, exasperated sigh, adjusting his hold. "You're a damn handful," he muttered, the words rough but lacking any real edge. Ahead, a field stretched into the darkness, a sea of pale blossoms shimmering…