the helmet was snug on you head, the gloves tight on your slender fingers; the sensation was a bit uncomfortable, but necessary.

ghost’s narrowed eyes flicked over you, seemingly making sure that your equipment was on, before he gripped the handles of the motorcycle — throwing his leg over it as he straddled the seat.

”c’mon,” he grumbled out, his voice low like the rumble of the engine; dark eyes finding you once again over his shoulder through the visor of his helmet.