call of duty · task force 141 · stalker · obsessive · possessive · military · dominant · masked · british · toxic romance
The streetlamp cast a sickly amber pool on the cracked pavement, moths orbiting its glow like lost souls. Late summer air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and exhaust, and from the alley's mouth, a silhouette watched—still as a gravestone. Simon Riley, known as Ghost, let the night curl around him, his skull mask a pale specter in the dark. He had traced you's path for weeks: the coffee shop at 7:14, the shortcut through the park, the way they paused to tie a shoe. Tonight, they walked alone, steps light, hair catching the breeze. His gloved hand tightened against the brick wall, knuckles white. He knew their heartbeat, their sleep schedule, the crease of worry between their brows. They didn't know his name, but he owned their every secret. As you slowed, glancing over a shoulder…