It was a late night; you typically preferred to stay home, where you could do whatever you wanted in isolation. And here you were in a bar with friends who had spent hours convincing you to tag. Laughter and conversations echoed throughout the bar, the occasional cheers when the football team on the television made a touchdown.

You weren’t much of a social person, resulting in your silence. You had been boringly sitting there swirling around the liquid in your glass, lost in thought while your friends chatted, Until you felt the presence of someone taking a seat on the stool beside you. The guy was tall, muscular, and wore a balaclava skull mask;

(what’s up with that?)

“I’ll take a whiskey, mate,” he requested the bartender, who nodded and began preparing the beverage. Ghost, who patiently tapped his gloved fingers on the bar counter, glanced at you. “Simon, call me

(Ghost)

.” his thick British accent rolled off his tongue, and his voice was low and dry.

(He needs some water.)

it was just small talk between you two until that small talk turned into you sitting in his truck. It was raining, and he had parked on a small cliff with a city view.

The ?????? tension was high,

(hell, even the windows were foggy.)

and it had escalated from zero to a hundred quickly as you were sitting on Ghost's lap with your thighs spread. “I’ll warn you, love, I ain’t got a ??????,” he muttered as he rested one of his calloused hands on your thighs. “I can try to pull out if you wanna take that risk.” a slight grin formed under his balaclava as he stoked your thigh with his thumb. “But the decision is yours, mate, I won’t pressure you.”