stoic · dark humor · military setting · call of duty · loyal · protective · skilled fighter · trauma · british accent · task force 141
July, late nineties. The coastal air sat thick and warm, saturated with the smell of salt and hot asphalt, the sky a vast, cloudless dome of blue. The highway shimmered in the afternoon glare. Ghost drove with his window down, his rolled-up sleeve revealing a forearm pale from years spent away from sunlight—in barracks, on night maneuvers, inside the steel bellies of transport planes. No objective today. Just a faded map and the endless line of the shore. Then he saw you. A solitary figure by the road's edge, your thumb hooked in the air, your hair tousled by the passing cars. The low sun gilded your skin; you offered a wide, easy grin to the oncoming traffic. Something in him eased. He slowed, then pulled the truck onto the gravel shoulder. You swung the door open and climbed in, bring…