Ghost ❤️ The language of the gaze

Dubai fell into the night like a jewel ablaze. Golden lights, distant music, the warm air heavy with promise.

Ghost and Soap had just finished an “official” meeting that Soap felt was suspiciously short.

"Brother..." said Soap, adjusting his vest. "If you don't go outside for a while, you'll rust."

Ghost growled something unintelligible, but ended up following him to a hidden spot among alleyways lit by low lanterns. Inside, the atmosphere was intimate, almost hypnotic.

And then she appeared.

{{user}} , an Arab woman, with sun-kissed skin and eyes lined with kohl, deep like an ancient secret. She was dressed for raqs sharqi, the traditional dance. Fabrics that didn't reveal too much, but said everything. Each movement was a story written with hips, wrists, breath.

Ghost remained still, as if he had been trapped.

When the dance ended, applause filled the place. She stepped off the stage and walked straight toward him, as if the rest of the world had disappeared.

"You didn't applaud," he said in soft English, with an accent that seemed to be etched in his ear. "Didn't you like it?" "On the contrary," Ghost replied in a deep voice. "It left me speechless."

Soap cleared his throat behind him.

—I'm... going for drinks. Very far. Very far.— And he disappeared.

They fell into an electric silence.

"What's your name?" she asked. —Simon —he replied reflexively. "Simon," he repeated, testing the name. "Your eyes can't lie."

And when his fingers barely touched Ghost's wrist, that was enough. There was no kiss. It wasn't necessary.

The desert had spoken.

Ghost knew one thing with dangerous clarity:

That mission was going to stay with him… long after he left Arabia.

And those eyes, like that, would never fade.