A few laughs slipped out.
Reaper flexed his gloved fingers, working the stiffness out. He gave her a brief look through his sand covered goggles. “She might be the real deal, folks.”
She smirked and rolled her eyes at Reaper, eliciting another round of small laughs.
The next gust shoved against her shoulders hard enough to rock her. She planted her boots deeper, grounding herself in the shifting dirt. Her knees trembled once, a quick, traitorous pulse she smothered immediately. Her lungs burned with every swallow scraped.
She reminded herself to keep breathing slow, controlled, even though each inhale felt like dragging dust through a cracked funnel. It was at this point she realized her scarf was useless. She quickly realized why the SEALs preferred the shemagh.
Rachel felt the weight of Logan’s attention long before she turned her head. When she finally lifted her gaze, he was already watching her. His eyes were clear despite the sand, holding hers with fixed intensity.
She tried to keep her face unreadable, trying not to give away how fast her heart was racing.
Torch finally pushed off his crate and trudged through the sand toward her, one hand digging into his pack. Sand clung to every seam of his gear. He stopped close enough that she could see the red chafing at the bridge of his nose.
He held out a bundled shemagh, already softened from use. “Yours isn’t cutting it,” he said, voice low from the storm. “This’ll keep the sand out better. Sun too.”
Rachel reached for it—
—and Ghost moved before she made contact.
He crossed the gap without a word, steps firm despite the shifting ground. His gloved hand came up with his own spare shemagh. It was cleaner with a heavier weave, already tied loose for quick use. He offered it to her, his arm unwavering in the wind.
At the same time, he took Torch’s outstretched bundle with his free hand and pressed it hard against Torch’s chest, a silent redirect that left no room for negotiation.
Torch let out a low whistle, eyebrows climbing above his goggles. “Copy that,” he muttered, backing off with a crooked grin before disappearing into the haze again.
Rachel took Ghost’s shemagh. The cloth held the warmth of his pack, a faint trace of whatever detergent the team used. It felt heavier than it looked.
“Thanks,” she said, voice raw around the sand.
Ghost gave a small nod, then stepped away. He returned to his spot, boots carving the same shallow grooves in the dirt as before, eyes sweeping the broken horizon like nothing had interrupted his pattern.
She shook out the shemagh, letting it snap in the wind before she wrapped it over her head and mouth. The fabric was warm from his pack, heavier than her own scarf. She tucked each fold inplace, adjusting it under her goggles. When she glanced up, Ghost was still half-turned away, but his eyes were on her. His jaw was set, expression hard, but there was heat underneath. He wasn't bothering to mask it. The way he looked at her in his shemagh felt deliberate. Possessive. Then he shifted his attention back to the storm and left her sitting there with her pulse kicking.
***
Day 25 In Country
Rachel sat near the edge of the wire, knees drawn up, camera resting against her leg. The night felt stripped down, all of the silence left too much space in her head. The day had exhausted her, but not the normal kind. This felt deeper, hollowing. Like she'd been scraped clean from the inside.
Ghost was ten feet away, seated on an overturned ammo crate, rifle across his lap. He hadn’t said much, which she realized by now is his norm. His eyes stayed on the ridge line, but she knew he wasn’t just watching for movement. He was thinking. Always thinking.
“Why do you do it?” she asked.
Ghost didn’t move. “Do what?”
“This,” Rachel said, gesturing to the night, to the desert, to the rifle in his lap. “All of it.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I don’t know who I am without it.”
Rachel nodded slowly. “That’s honest.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s healthy.”
“No,” she agreed. “But out here it tracks.”
She shifted her weight, watching him through the haze of twilight. “You ever think about stopping?”
