#actionromance

She didn't wait to be ambushed.

Eve pivoted, swinging her rifle up, but the shadow was faster. A heavy, gloved hand slammed into her weapon, knocking it aside. She lunged forward, leading with a sharp elbow, but it hit a chest that felt like solid marble. The force of the counter-strike sent her reeling.

She turned and ran, not out of fear, but to find a tactical advantage. She was fast—exceptionally so—weaving through the narrow gaps of the yard. But the heavy thud of boots behind her didn't fade. Ghost was a force of nature, a relentless predator that didn't seem to tire.

As she rounded a corner, Ghost launched himself. He tackled her mid-stride, his massive weight crashing into her and sending them both skidding across the wet gravel. He pinned her down, his forearm pressing hard against her throat to subdue her. Eve didn't panic. With a flick of her wrist, she unsheathed a tactical blade hidden at her hip. Before he could lock her arms, she drove the knife deep into the meat of his thigh.

Ghost let out a sharp, guttural growl of pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to scramble back. He reached for his sidearm, his finger on the trigger, his dark eyes burning with lethal intent through the skull mask.

Eve froze, her striking green eyes locked onto Ghost’s, her hand already reaching for her own sidearm to finish the draw.

"Lieutenant Thorne!"

The roar of Captain Price’s voice echoed through the shipyard, cutting through the tension like a gunshot. Price stepped into the dim light.

"Ghost, stand down!" Price commanded.

Eve blinked, her gaze shifting from the barrel of the gun to the man in the boonie hat.

"Captain Price?" she asked, her voice tight with uncertainty.

"Easy, Thorne. He's with us," Price said, his voice lowering to a calmer, grounding tone.

Ghost slowly lowered his weapon, but he didn't take his eyes off her. He reached down, gripping the hilt of the knife still embedded in his leg, and pulled it out with a sharp hiss. He stood up with visible difficulty, leaning heavily on his good leg, his posture radiating a cold, murderous fury.

Eve watched him, realizing she had just stabbed the most dangerous man in the unit. She didn't look terrified, though. Instead, a small, guiltily amused smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Sorry about that," she said, her voice dripping with a thick, unmistakable Manchester accent.

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned her back on the fuming Lieutenant and walked toward Price, her stride confident and rhythmic. "Good to see you, Captain. Your dog has a hell of a bite," she called out over her shoulder.

They walked toward the extraction point where Soap and Gaz were waiting on high alert. As Eve stepped into the light, both men straightened up, struck by how remarkably beautiful she was despite the grime of the shipyard. Her vibrant red hair was pulled back into a tactical ponytail, with a few damp, curly strands escaping the tie to frame a face that was as fierce as it was stunning.

"Johnny, Kyle, meet Lieutenant Morgan Thorne," Price announced.

Gaz blinked, then looked past her to see Ghost approaching, limping slightly with a dark, wet stain spreading down his tactical trousers. "Are you alright there, LT?" Gaz asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

Soap looked at the blood on Ghost’s leg, then back at Eve. She caught his eye and made a tiny, "guilty" face, shrugging her shoulders. Soap’s expression shifted into a hilarious look of pure, impressed disbelief.

Ghost reached the group, stopping next to Soap. He didn't say a word, but he turned his masked head to stare at Soap with an expression that clearly promised murder if he uttered a single joke.

"I see you've already met Ghost," Price remarked, his eyes lingering on the heavy trail of blood soaking through the Lieutenant's tactical trousers. He tilted his head toward his second-in-command. "You okay, Simon?"

Ghost didn't look at Price. He kept his dark eyes locked on Eve for one more heartbeat, his chest heaving with silent, cold fury.

"Fuckin' perfect," Ghost spat, his voice like gravel.

He turned and limped toward the waiting black SUV, hauling himself into the back seat with a heavy, metallic thud that signaled he was done talking for the night.

Eve just tucked a stray, wet strand of her vibrant red hair behind her ear, watching the SUV shake as Ghost slammed the door shut.

The interior of the SUV was thick with a silence so heavy it felt like physical pressure. Price sat in the front passenger seat, while Gaz drove through the rain-slicked roads. In the back, Eve sat in the middle, sandwiched between a grinning Soap and a Ghost who was radiating pure, unadulterated venom.

Ghost sat stiffly against the door, his leg roughly bandaged with a field dressing. He stared out the window, his frame rigid, refusing to acknowledge the woman who had just put him on the disabled list.

Soap leaned in, looking at the bloody bandage and then at Eve with an impressed glint in his eyes. "I have to say... to be fair to the LT here, he was convinced he was tracking a six-foot-five bruiser named Morgan. The paperwork didn't exactly mention a redheaded lass from the North."

"Is that right?" Eve asked, her Manchester lilt cutting through the tension. She looked at the back of Ghost’s masked head, her green eyes sharp. "You thought I was a bloke, did you? Explains why you tried to tackle me like a rugby prop instead of a professional."

Ghost’s head turned slowly, the skull mask inches from her face. "I thought you were a threat," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous warning that vibrated in the small space. "I was right."

"Mmhmm..." Eve countered with a cold, mocking smile, her expression shifting into one of pure, dark amusement. "I think you thought I was an easy target. That’s why you’re the one bleeding now."

Ghost didn't respond with words. His dark eyes burned with a flicker of genuine hatred through the mask, his chest heaving as he turned back to the window, the silence in the SUV now vibrating with his unspoken fury.

"Alright, enough," Price barked from the front, though a faint, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. "The confusion was intentional. Keeping Thorne’s profile 'ambiguous' in the system was my call. It kept her alive in the field while she was digging up the intel we need."

Price turned serious, the commander’s mask locking into place. "Introductions over. Morgan, the shipment?"

Eve’s playfulness vanished. "It’s a mobile hub, Captain. They’re synthesizing chemicals on the move across the border, shifting grids every four hours to dodge your satellites."

"Which is why we needed a tracker planted up close," Price noted, catching Gaz’s eye in the mirror.

"I have the keys and schedules," Eve added firmly. "But we have a forty-eight-hour window. If we don’t hit them tonight, the trail goes cold."

Gaz tightened his grip. "So, she’s our ticket in?"

"She’s the only one who knows the layout," Price confirmed. "Thorne is Lead Intel for this op. Eyes on the objective."

Soap let out a low whistle, giving Eve an appreciative nod. "Lead Intel and a hell of a hand with a knife. Sounds like the pace just got a bit faster."

Ghost let out a sharp, dry huff and turned back to the window. His silence was no longer purely cold; it was the quiet, brooding frustration of a man who had finally met his match and knew he’d have to work twice as hard to keep his lead.

♤♡◇♧

The safehouse was groaning under the weight of the blizzard howling outside. Inside, the air was a frozen fog, barely stirred by the dying embers in the hearth. Morgan sat on the cold floorboards, her back against a moth-eaten sofa, legs stretched out toward the man sitting opposite her.

Between them sat a bottle of expensive Scotch, more than half gone. Eve held a cracked glass, swirling the amber liquid, while Ghost held the bottle by its neck, his large frame casting a jagged shadow against the peeling wallpaper.

The silence was thick, blurred by the haze of the alcohol. Eve let her gaze linger on the skull mask, her eyes heavy and unfocused. A lot had changed in the four months since she’d first driven a knife into his leg in that rainy shipyard.

"You’re staring, Thorne," Ghost rasped. His voice was lower than usual, slowed by the whiskey but still holding that dangerous edge.

Eve didn't look away. "So?"

Ghost held her stare, his dark eyes unblinking behind the mask. He looked like a statue carved from ice and shadow.

"I'm trying to imagine it," she murmured, leaning her head back against the sofa. "Your face. Trying to piece it together."

Ghost let out a short, dry huff of breath, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Don't waste your time."

"Why?" Eve challenged, a lopsided, drunken smirk pulling at her lips. "Are you ugly, Simon?"

He didn't answer. He just watched her with a terrifying intensity, the kind of look that usually made people turn and run. But Eve was too far gone—and too used to him—to care.

"Tell you what," she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial Manchester hum. She reached for the tactical knife strapped to her thigh. She pulled it slow, the steel glinting in the dim light. She pointed the tip toward a small, rusted iron ring hanging from a loose floorboard near the far corner of the room—a tiny target, barely an inch wide, at an awkward angle.

"If I hit that ring, from here... you take the mask off."

Ghost looked at the ring, then back at her. She was swaying slightly even as she sat, her face flushed from the Scotch. In her state, the shot was impossible. The alcohol should have stripped her of her precision. He took a long swig from the bottle, the whiskey warming his judgment just enough to let the guard down.

"Fine," he muttered. "Do it."

Eve stood up, her boots scuffing the wood. She stumbled once, catching herself on the arm of the sofa, looking every bit the drunk she was. Ghost watched her, almost ready to catch her if she toppled.

But then, she stopped.

Her shoulders squared. Her breathing went silent. In a heartbeat, the drunken haze vanished from her eyes, replaced by a cold, lethal focus that turned her into a living weapon. She didn't aim; she just moved.

The knife left her hand like a streak of silver.

THWACK.

The blade buried itself dead center into the rusted iron ring, quivering with the force of the impact.

The silence that followed was absolute. Eve stayed in her follow-through position for a second, then slowly relaxed, the drunken sway returning as she turned back to face him. She leaned against the sofa, her green eyes bright with victory.

"Mask off," she whispered.

Ghost sat frozen, his gaze moving from the vibrating hilt of the knife in the floorboard back to the woman leaning casually against the sofa. He let out a low, breathless huff of air—half-laugh, half-disbelief—and shook his head. The whiskey had softened the usual iron walls of his composure, leaving a rare, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Un-fuckin-believable," he muttered, the word thick with his deep, gravelly rasp.

He didn't make her ask twice. Ghost reached up, his gloved fingers catching the hem of the balaclava that was already bunched above his jaw. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the fabric up and over his head, discarding it onto the cold floor.

The flickering light of the dying fire finally hit his face—the rugged features, the pale skin marked by the shadows of war, and the eyes that suddenly looked much more human without the skull painted around them.

Eve didn't blink. She leaned forward, her eyes tracing every line and scar with an intensity that made the air between them hum. A soft, genuine smile spread across her face, bright and victorious.

"Nice to meet you, Simon Riley," she whispered, her Manchester accent warm and honeyed by the Scotch.

She raised her cracked glass toward him, offering a silent, respectful toast. Ghost didn't look away, his gaze every bit as piercing as hers. He lifted the heavy glass bottle, nodding once in return before the glass and the bottle clinked in the freezing air.

He took a long swig, his eyes never leaving hers, acknowledging the woman who had finally managed to unmask the Ghost.

The morning light was harsh, reflecting off the white expanse of the blizzard-buried world outside. Morgan groaned, the dull thrum of a hangover pulsing behind her eyes. She stirred on the moth-eaten sofa, straightening up with visible effort as she rubbed her face with both hands, trying to scrub away the fog of the Scotch.

Ghost was already up, seated at the small wooden table. The skull mask was back in place, cold and impenetrable as ever. He didn't look up from the tactical tablet in his hand, his thumb scrolling through data with mechanical precision.

"You’re late, Thorne," Ghost rasped. His voice was back to its usual gravelly friction, showing no trace of the night before. "The world didn't stop turning just because you decided to drown yourself in amber."

Eve squinted at him, shielding her eyes from the glare. "Bloody hell, keep it down, will you?" she muttered, leaning her head back. She paused, a fuzzy memory tugging at her. "I had the strangest dream... I dreamt I actually saw you without that mask."

Ghost didn't flinch. He kept his eyes locked on the tablet, his posture rigid. "Alcohol-induced hallucination. Forget it."

Eve was about to agree when her gaze drifted toward the far corner of the room. Her eyes widened. There, still buried deep in the rusted iron ring on the floorboard, was her tactical knife.

A slow, delighted smirk spread across her face. "Bloody hell!" she breathed, a quiet laugh escaping her. "It wasn't a dream. I did see your face." She leaned forward, ignoring the protest from her head, her green eyes dancing with mischief. "Quite handsome, let me say. A bit of a waste to keep it under wraps, Simon."

Ghost stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. He finally looked at her, but his gaze was professional, icy, and completely dismissive of her comment.

"Stow the chatter, Lieutenant," he commanded, sliding the tablet into his vest. "Extraction is ten mikes out. Gather your gear and clear the site. We’re moving."

He turned his back on her to check the perimeter, his movements sharp and efficient. Eve didn't move immediately; she just sat there with a guilty, amused smirk, watching the "Ghost" try to pretend the previous night had never happened.

"Aye, aye, sir," she whispered to his back, her voice dripping with silent laughter. She stood up, walking over to the far corner and crouching down to retrieve her weapon. She yanked it from the floorboard with a satisfying shink.

"I definitely need my knife back, though," she called out, sliding the blade back into its sheath with a click. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "Who knows? I might need to toss it again just to see if that face is still there."

Ghost didn't say a word. He gave her one long, unreadable look through the lenses of his mask before turning and walking out of the safehouse into the blinding snow. Eve stayed behind for a second, her face still split by that irrepressible, mischievous grin.

He stepped out of the safehouse first, his boots crunching heavily into the fresh, powdery snow. He scanned the tree line, the cold wind whipping against his mask, but the perimeter was clear. He began to turn, expecting to wait for a groggy Lieutenant to stumble out behind him.

Instead, the door swung open and Morgan emerged much faster than he had anticipated.

She stepped into the blinding white glare of the morning with effortless confidence. She had swapped her disheveled look for her full tactical gear—black carbon plates and straps hugging her frame—and her long, curly vibrant red hair was completely loose for once, flowing over her shoulders like a banner of fire against the snow. She had slipped on a pair of dark aviators to block the blizzard's reflection, and she gripped her rifle with the casual ease of a natural-born predator.

Ghost went still. He stared at her for a few long seconds, genuinely taken aback. He had seen her in the mud of the shipyards and the grime of the field, but seeing her like this—the tactical gear, the dark lenses, and that loose red mane—she looked like a force of nature. She looked spectacular.

Eve caught his stare and offered a sharp, mischievous grin that proved the hangover wasn't going to slow her down.

"All set, sir," she said, her Manchester lilt dripping with a playful, mocking edge since they both held the same rank of Lieutenant. She adjusted the strap of her rifle and began to walk past him, her stride rhythmic and steady. "Let's not keep the Captain waiting, shall we?"

She didn't look back as she headed toward the extraction point, leaving Ghost to adjust his gear and follow a step behind, his eyes lingering on the red hair catching the wind.

♤♡◇♧

The planning room was dimly lit, the blue glow of the holographic tactical map illuminating the tired faces of Task Force 141. They had been at this for hours, dissecting the layout of a high-end, heavily fortified club in Milan.

"The server is on the third floor, tucked behind the VIP lounge," Price said, pointing his cigar at the schematic. "The target is Lorenzo Valli. He’s paranoid, dangerous, and never goes anywhere without a twelve-man security detail. If we kick the door down, he’ll wipe the drive before we even clear the lobby."

"We need a ghost run," Gaz added, leaning over the table. "Two men slip upstairs while the target is occupied. But Valli has eyes everywhere. The club itself is on the second floor; all access to the third is strictly monitored by his personal guard. If his security team doesn’t report in, they'll spot the breach on the stairwell immediately."

"So, we need a diversion," Soap muttered, crossing his arms. "Something big enough to pull his entire security focus toward the main floor."

The room went silent as they mentally cycled through tactical options—flashbangs, decoys, false alarms. None of them were subtle enough to keep Valli from hitting the 'delete' button.

"Living bait," Eve murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

The silence that followed was different. It was heavy. One by one, Price, Gaz, and Soap turned their heads to look at her. Ghost, who had been leaning against the back wall in the shadows, shifted his weight, his unblinking stare burning through his mask.

Eve looked up, her expression perfectly flat. "What? I’m the only one here who can wear a dress and look good. Unless Soap wants to try his luck in heels, I’m the only play we’ve got."

"It's a dangerous play, Eve," Price said, his voice dropping into a low, warning register. "Valli isn't just a businessman. He's a predator. If he figures out you’re a plant, you won’t have an exit strategy."

"I know," Eve responded, her Manchester lilt steady and devoid of fear. She looked toward Soap and Price. "That's why you'll have to be fast. I’ll get him to clear the floor, give you the window you need. But the second that data is in the air, I’m out."

Soap looked at Gaz, who blew out a long, tense breath. No one liked it. The idea of putting one of their own in the middle of a shark tank without a weapon was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Absolutely not," Ghost rasped. His voice was like grinding stones, cutting through the room's hesitation. He stepped forward into the light, his massive frame looming over the table. "We find another way."

Eve didn't flinch. She turned her head slightly to look at him, a faint, challenging smirk playing on her lips—the same look she had the morning she told him his face was 'quite handsome.'

"There is no other way," she said softly. "You’ll be on the overlook with a long rifle. You’ll be my guardian angel. Unless... you don't think you can hit a target from that distance?"

Ghost’s chest heaved with a silent, cold fury. He hated the plan. He hated the risk. But as he looked at the map and then back at her determined green eyes, he knew she was right.

"Tonight," Price finalized, his voice signaling the end of the debate. "Gaz, you’re on the van for encryption. Soap, you’re with me on the breach. Ghost... you don't miss."

The hangar was bustling with the final mechanical checks of the transport vehicles, the air thick with the smell of diesel and anticipation. Price, Soap, and Gaz were already geared up, their rugged tactical vests and weapons a stark contrast to the mission's high-society setting.

Soap was checking his sidearm when the sound of sharp, rhythmic clicks echoed against the concrete floor. He looked up, and his jaw practically hit the floor.

Morgan emerged from the shadows of the locker corridor like a vision. She was wearing a metallic black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin, the fabric shimmering with every confident stride. The deep neckline and the high slit of the dress were daring, but it was her vibrant red hair, flowing in loose waves over her shoulders, that truly commanded the room. With her makeup done to enhance the sharp green of her eyes, she didn't look like a soldier—she looked like a goddess.

"Bloody hell, Morgan," Soap breathed, a wide, impressed grin breaking across his face. "If the mission fails, it’s because Valli’s heart stopped the second you walked in. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe, and I’m on your side!"

Ghost, standing near the back of the SUV, didn't utter a word. He remained as still as a statue, but his dark eyes were locked onto her, tracking her movement with an intensity that felt electric. Ghost felt his entire body lock up, a sudden, sharp tension coiling in his gut that had nothing to do with the mission. Beneath his tactical gear, his heart hammered a rhythm that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the woman standing before him.

Eve caught Ghost's unblinking stare. She held his gaze for a long, heavy moment, her green eyes searching his through the lenses of his mask, acknowledging the silent storm between them. Finally, she broke the contact and moved toward Price.

Price stood by the lead vehicle, his arms crossed. He looked at her not just as her commanding officer, but with a paternal flicker of concern in his gaze. He took in the dress, the heels, and the lack of armor, knowing exactly how exposed she was about to be.

"Are you sure about this?" Price asked, his voice low and heavy with the weight of the risk.

Eve met his eyes and nodded once, her jaw set in a firm line. "Yes, Captain."

Price studied her for a moment longer, seeing the steel behind the silk. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder for a brief second before nodding to the team.

"Right then," Price announced, his voice regaining its command authority. "Let’s go."

The team split toward the convoy. Gaz headed for the van packed with high-end encryption servers and monitoring gear. Soap and Price climbed into the sleek sedan that would serve as their primary breach vehicle. Ghost opened the door of the black SUV, waiting as Eve slid into the leather seat beside him, the silence between them vibrating as they prepared to head into the heart of the lion's den.

The SUV slowed to a crawl a block away from the pulsing neon lights of the Milanese club. Ghost kept his hands tight on the wheel, his gaze fixed forward.

"I'm dropping you here," he rasped, his voice strained. "I need three mikes to reach the overlook. Do not—repeat, do not—enter until I give the green light."

Eve checked the hidden comms unit disguised as a delicate pearl earring. The metallic black dress felt heavy with the weight of the mission, her vibrant red hair a bold target against the dark silk. "Copy that. I'm waiting on you."

Once Ghost signaled he was in position on a towering overlook overlooking the club’s upper levels, Eve stepped into the shark tank.

The air inside was thick with expensive cologne and danger. She moved like a ghost in silk, her presence drawing every eye in the room on the second floor.

"Target in sight," Eve whispered into her earring, leaning casually against the marble bar. "Valli is at the center table. Twelve o'clock. Six security guards on the floor, four more on the balcony level."

"I see them," Ghost’s voice crackled in her ear, hyper-vigilant from his perch. "Two guards moving to the left corridor. Another on the stairs. Price, Soap, the target is distracted. Move on the third floor access now.”

Eve caught Valli’s gaze, offering a slow, devastating smile before turning to the bartender. Valli was hooked. As he approached her, his security detail shifted their focus, creating the gap Price and Soap needed to breach the private stairwell.

"He's moving," Eve murmured. "Price, Soap... go."

While Price and Soap neutralized the third-floor guards with surgical precision, Eve played the role of the enchanting distraction on the level below. But the tension skyrocketed when Valli gripped her arm.

"He’s taking me upstairs," Eve reported, her voice steady despite her racing heart.

"Soap, status!" Ghost barked over the radio, his tone laced with urgent friction. "She's moving to the server level. I've lost visual—there are too many blind spots in the external structure. Tell me you have it, Johnny”.

"Almost there, Ghost!" Soap’s voice crackled back, strained and breathless over the sound of muffled scuffles. "Just a few more seconds! Hold your position!"

Inside the private office on the third floor, the air turned frigid. Valli opened the door and froze, seeing a downed guard on the floor near his desk.

"Cosa...?"

He lunged for the server's kill-switch on his desk, but Eve was faster. She pivoted in her heels, slamming her palm into his jaw and snatching the bypass device from his hand. Valli roared, throwing a heavy punch that caught her lip. Eve spun, blood blooming on her face, but she managed to kick his legs out from under him.

"Valli’s down but reinforcements are coming!" she yelled into her comms.

Through the massive office windows, Ghost saw the movement in the hallway. "Two men in the hallway”.

THWACK. THWACK.

Two high-caliber shots from Ghost’s rifle shattered the glass, dropping the men before they could enter the office.

"Data is secure! Eve get out!" Price’s voice cut through the chaos.

Eve bolted. She tore through the back hallways, her heels clicking frantically against the marble before she hissed and kicked them off. She was a blur of metallic black and red hair, her lungs burning as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the club.

A guard rounded the corner, raising a radio to his mouth, but Eve didn’t slow down. She used her momentum to drive her shoulder into his chest, slamming him against the wall. Before he could recover, she delivered a sharp, precision strike to his throat and a knee to his gut, leaving him gasping on the floor as she kept moving.

Further down the hall, two more men emerged from a side exit, blocking her path. Eve didn't hesitate. She ducked under the first man's swing, grabbed his arm, and used his own weight to hurl him into his partner. As they stumbled, she delivered a spinning back-kick that sent one into a decorative vase, shattering it into a thousand pieces. She was breathing hard, her knuckles bruised, but the cold focus of an operative hadn't left her eyes.

She rounded the final corner, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, and slammed hard into a wall of solid tactical gear.

She moved with a lethal intent, ready to claw her way through whatever stood in her path.

But the "wall" moved first.

Ghost’s large, gloved hands shot out with lightning speed, catching her wrists in mid-air and pinning them against his chest with effortless strength. He held her firmly, neutralizing her strike before she could connect.

"Eve, it's me!" Ghost’s voice grounded her, deep and commanding even amidst the sirens.

He didn't let go, his grip steady and grounding as he stared down at her.

"Holy fuck!" Eve gasped, her chest heaving as the adrenaline surged, her eyes wide as she finally registered the skull mask and the dark, familiar gaze behind it.

Ghost's gaze held hers for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as they flickered to the crimson smear on her split lip and the trail of blood tracing down from her temple. His jaw tightened visibly behind the mask, he drew his sidearm with a lethal fluidity.

"Stay close," he growled, his voice dropping into that dangerous, protective rasp.

They burst through the heavy maintenance doors into the service corridor. Bullets immediately began to chew into the concrete walls around them, sending chips of stone flying like shrapnel. Ghost didn't hesitate; he moved like a wall of living shadow, keeping his massive frame positioned between the incoming fire and the path they were clearing. He worked his sidearm with mechanical precision, dropping two guards at the end of the hall before they could even level their weapons.

Eve stayed on his heels, her movements sharp and synchronized with his. As they rounded the final corner toward the alleyway, a hail of gunfire shattered a nearby window, showering the asphalt in glass. Ghost suppressed the last line of Valli's men with a rapid, rhythmic succession of shots, providing the cover she needed to move.

"To the car! Now!"

They broke into a full sprint, two shadows moving in perfect tandem. Eve reached the SUV's passenger side just as Ghost reached the driver’s door. She yanked it open, diving into the seat and slamming the door shut in one fluid motion. Ghost was behind the wheel in a heartbeat, the engine roaring to life before the door had even fully latched. The tires screamed against the pavement as he floored it, the vehicle fishtailing slightly before gripping the asphalt.

"They're on us!" Eve shouted, checking the side mirror as the headlights of two black sedans swung aggressively into view behind them.

Without waiting for an order, Eve scrambled into the back seat, grabbing Ghost’s discarded rifle from the floorboard. She rolled down the window, the freezing Milanese air rushing in, her vibrant red hair whipping wildly in the wind. Bracing her shoulder against the frame, she opened fire. The rhythmic crack-crack-crack of the rifle echoed through the narrow streets as she targeted the lead car’s tires and engine block.

After a final, precise burst, the first sedan swerved violently, colliding with a parked car and blocking the path for the second. Eve kept her eyes locked on the wreckage until the distance swallowed the smoke. She pulled herself back inside, chest heaving.

"I think we're clear," she panted, squinting through the rear glass. "The road's empty. No more headlights."

Ghost kept his eyes locked on the rearview mirror, his knuckles white as he took a sharp turn into a dark alley. "Confirmed. We lost them." He keyed his comms.

"Bravo 0-6, this is Bravo 0-7. Primary rendezvous is burned. Too much heat. We’re diverting to the backup safehouse in the outskirts. We'll hole up there until the city cools down."

"Copy, Bravo 0-7," Price’s voice crackled. "Stay off the grid. We’ll wait for your signal. Out."

Ghost tossed the radio aside and spared a quick, dark glance at Eve through the mirror, noting her split lip and the blood on her temple.

"Check the bag in the footwell for the medkit," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "We need to clear that safehouse before we step inside. We’re going to be stuck there for a while."

Inside the hollow shell of the apartment, Eve finally collapsed against the wall. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, the adrenaline crash hitting her like a physical blow. She looked down at the blood staining her dress, her breathing ragged and shallow. Her knuckles were raw and bloodied from the fight, and the copper scent of the blood on her face felt heavy in the stale air.

"Fuck... fuckin' shit..." Eve hissed, her voice quivering as she stared at her trembling hands.

Ghost closed the distance in silence, his presence grounding the room. He didn't hesitate; he caught her wrists to stop the shaking, his gloved grip iron-clad but controlled. Shifting his hands, he framed her face, his large palms forcing her head up until she had no choice but to meet his stare.

He didn't offer empty words. He simply held her there, anchoring her with a steady, unwavering gaze through the eye slits of his mask. He waited, commanding her pulse to match his own, until her breathing finally leveled out.

"Clean the wounds first," he finally rasped, the order low and absolute. "Move."

Eve looked into his eyes. She didn't trust her voice to speak, so she simply gave a small, weary nod

Ghost moved away for a second, returning with the medkit she had pulled from the SUV. He walked into the small, cramped dining area of the apartment and pulled out one of the mismatched chairs, gesturing for her to sit directly in front of him; his knees brushing hers as he positioned himself in the tight space.

With a deliberate movement, he reached for the velcro straps at his wrists. The sound of the material tearing felt loud in the small room. He pulled his tactical gloves off, one finger at a time, and tossed them onto the table.

He opened the kit with practiced efficiency. His movements were methodical, but as he reached for a sterile wipe with his bare hands, they hesitated for a fraction of a second. He was used to patching up bullet wounds on soldiers, not cleaning the delicate skin of a woman’s face while she wore a shimmering evening dress stained with the grime of a back-alley brawl.

"Tilt your head up," he commanded softly.

Morgan obeyed, her green eyes never leaving his mask. As he leaned in to dab at the cut on her temple, the warmth of his fingers against her skin felt like an electric current.

"You took a risk with Valli," Ghost muttered, his thumb brushing near her jaw as he cleaned the blood from her lip. "A second later and those shots through the window wouldn't have mattered."

Morgan let out a small, sharp breath as the antiseptic stung. "But you didn't miss, did you? "I knew you had my back, Simon."

Ghost’s hand stilled. He looked at her, and for a moment, the war, the mission, and the Task Force felt a million miles away.

"Don't make me prove it twice," he rasped.

Ghost’s hand lingered near her jaw for a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled back to dispose of the stained wipe. He reached back into the kit, pulling out a fresh compress and a bottle of saline.

"Hands," he commanded, his voice a low vibration.

Morgan extended her arms, her hands settling into his large, bare palms. He didn't comment on the tremors; he just held them steady, his rough skin a stark, solid anchor against her own.

He worked in silence, cleaning her knuckles with deliberate, clinical efficiency. When the saline hit the raw skin and Morgan winced, her fingers twitching to pull away, Ghost’s grip simply tightened. He just held her in place, refusing to let her recoil.

"Stay still," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly command

"Messy work," he muttered, his head bowed as he focused on the task. "But effective. You tore through them, Thorne. Even without a sidearm, you were a goddamn whirlwind."

"I had my hands," Morgan replied, her voice regaining some of its usual silkiness, though it still held a weary edge. "And I had you watching my back. I knew I wouldn't have to hold them off forever."

Ghost didn’t look up, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. He moved to her other hand, his movements faster now, wiping away the grime to reveal the deep purple of the bruising underneath.

"Valli’s men are amateurs, but they have the numbers," he rasped, the protective edge in his voice turning sharp. He gripped her hand for a split second, a brief, crushing pressure, as his eyes flickered to the blood on her temple. "You stayed in the open too long. Another second without eyes on you and—"

He snapped his jaw shut, the sentence dying in a cold, jagged silence. He didn't finish it. He didn't need to. The tension in the room shifted, turning heavy with everything he wasn't allowed to say.

He lifted his head to lock his dark gaze with her green eyes. "The mission is over. But we’re not out of the woods yet."

"I know," Morgan whispered, her voice finally steadying as she looked down at the ruined dress. She managed a small, tired smirk, the sharp edge of her humor returning. "Besides this dress is currently more blood than metallic black. I think it’s time for something with actual pockets."

Ghost’s gaze didn't waver. He stayed seated on the chair, his bare, scarred hands resting on his knees. The corner of his mouth—hidden beneath the fabric of his mask—seemed to twitch.

"Dangerous distraction, Thorne," he rasped, his voice a low, jagged warning. "Almost made me forget the mission."

Morgan froze for a heartbeat, her green eyes widening at the unexpected admission. She huffed a short, breathless laugh and shook her head.

"Shut up, Simon," she muttered, though there was no bite in her tone.

She stood up, her joints protesting the movement, and grabbed the tactical bag she’d hauled from the SUV. Without another word, she turned and walked toward the small, dimly lit bathroom at the end of the hallway.

Ghost didn't move. He sat in the silence of the dining area, his eyes locked on her back until the bathroom door clicked shut. The sound of the lock turning echoed in the quiet apartment. He looked down at his bare hands, still feeling the ghost of her warmth on his palms, and let out a long, slow breath. For a man who lived in the shadows, the memory of her under the club’s neon lights—sharp, blood-stained, and far too loud for his peace of mind—was becoming a problem he didn't know how to solve

Four hours had passed since they breached the service corridor in Milan, and the high-tension hum of the mission had settled into a weary, heavy quiet.

Ghost stood by the darkened window of the living area, his frame a massive silhouette against the faint city lights reflecting off the rain-streaked glass. He adjusted his headset as Price’s voice crackled through the secure line.

"Bravo 0-7, status," Price’s voice was steady, the background noise suggesting he was already aboard a command transport.

"Holding at the backup safehouse. The city is quiet, but we’re staying dark," Ghost reported, his voice a low rasp that barely carried across the room.

"Good. Watch your six, but the heat is dissipating," Price replied. "Gaz has localized the drone feeds. We’ve got eyes on the perimeter—three layers of aerial surveillance patrolling your sector. You’re in the clear for now. Extraction is scheduled for twenty-four hours from my mark. Sit tight until then."

"Copy that. Twenty-four hours. Out."

Ghost disconnected the feed and turned his head slightly. In the kitchen, the soft clatter of cabinets broke the silence. Eve was rummaging through the upper cupboards, her vibrant red hair flowing freely over her shoulders. The metallic black was gone replaced by a pair of dark sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, revealing the raw bruises and the small, neat cut on her temple that Ghost had tended to earlier.

She reached the back of a deep shelf and pulled out a dusty, unlabeled bottle of dark rum. She stared at the liquid for a moment before letting out a long, weary sigh.

"I need a fuckin' drink," she muttered, her voice low but carrying clearly in the small apartment.

Ghost didn't move from his position by the window, his arms crossed over his chest. "Price said the perimeter is secure, Thorne. He didn't say it was a holiday."

Eve grabbed a glass, poured a generous measure of the amber liquid, and began walking toward the living area. She collapsed onto the worn sofa directly across from Ghost. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the rum before looking up at him, a mischievous glint returning to her green eyes.

"Relax, Simon," she said, her Manchester lilt softened by exhaustion. "Even half-drunk, I can still put a knife exactly where I want it. You know that."

She punctuated the sentence with a slow, deliberate wink.

Ghost remained still for a heartbeat, his dark eyes locked on her from behind the mask. Then, a short, huffed sound—the closest thing to a laugh she had ever heard from him—escaped his throat. He shook his head slowly, a gesture of silent, resigned amusement, before turning his gaze back to the rainy street below.

♤♡◇♧

The hum of the server room was a low, electric drone, vibrating beneath the soles of their boots. Blue light flickered across the rows of black towers as Gaz and Soap secured the perimeter, leaving Eve and Ghost to extract the final encryption keys.

Eve was hunched over the main console, her fingers flying across the keys, her vibrant red ponytail swaying slightly as she worked. Ghost stood just behind her, his eyes scanning the room, his hand resting on the grip of his Holger.

"Almost through," Eve whispered, the green glow of the screen reflecting in her eyes. "The final layer is dropping now."

The progress bar hit 100%. But instead of the schematics they expected, a restricted file flared to life. Ghost’s gaze narrowed as he looked over her shoulder. At the very top of the list, flashing in a deep, accusatory red, was a single string of data:

ASSET IDENTIFIER: MORGAN THORNE - STATUS: ACTIVE DISCLOSURE / EXTERNAL PAYROLL.

Ghost froze. The air in the room seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden, freezing vacuum. He stared at her name—her real name—linked to a deep-cover betrayal.

In a heartbeat, the silence snapped.

Ghost lunged. He spun her around with a violent jerk, his massive hand fist-tight in the front of her tactical vest, slamming her back against the server rack. The metal groaned under the impact. Before she could even gasp, the cold, hard muzzle of his sidearm was jammed brutally under her chin, forcing her head back.

"What the fuck, Simon?!" Eve shouted, her voice a mix of shock and sudden, sharp adrenaline.

"Why the fuck is your name in there?" Ghost rasped, his voice a guttural, terrifying snarl. His dark eyes were blown out, burning with a lethal betrayal that felt worse than a bullet.

Eve’s eyes flickered sideways toward the monitor, catching the red text. Her face went pale, her expression a mask of pure, genuine bewilderment. "I don’t know!"

"You are a fuckin' traitor, Morgan?!" Ghost roared, his finger tightening on the trigger, the pressure under her jaw increasing until it bruised.

"What the fuck are you saying?!" she spat back, but then she saw it. For the first time, she saw it in his eyes: doubt. The man who had held her in the dark in Milan, the man who had let her see his face, was looking at her like a target.

She knew him. She knew that if she didn't move now, his training would override him.

Eve acted. With a lightning-fast, practiced motion, she brought her arm up, breaking his grip on her vest while simultaneously twisting her body to the side, away from the barrel of the gun. She used her momentum to drive a hard, calculated palm-strike into his chest, pushing him back just enough to create a gap.

Ghost stumbled, his boots scraping the floor, but he didn't stay down. He was a predator in full combat mode, his reflexes snapping back into place before Eve could even reach the first row of servers.

"Thorne!" he roared, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the cramped space.

Eve didn't look back. She knew the layout of the room was her only advantage. As Ghost lunged again, his massive hand nearly catching the collar of her vest, she dove under a low cable-bridge, sliding across the floor and kicking a heavy equipment cart into his path. The metal cart slammed into Ghost's shins, slowing him for a fraction of a second—the only second she had.

She scrambled up, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't just run; she parkoured through the narrow aisles, her smaller frame allowing her to squeeze through gaps that Ghost had to shoulder-charge through. The sound of metal groaning and servers shattering followed her as Ghost tore through the obstacles like a freight train.

She reached the service ladder, swinging herself up with a frantic, rhythmic strength. Below her, Ghost reached the base of the ladder, his hand catching the heel of her boot.

"Don't make me shoot you, Morgan!" he hissed, his voice a terrifying mix of duty and raw, bleeding betrayal.

Eve kicked back with a desperate force, her boot connecting with the hard plastic of his mask. The impact jarred him just enough for her to lose his grip. She vaulted onto the upper catwalk, her breathing coming in jagged, burning lunges.

She saw the exit—a heavy steel door leading to the roof access. She threw herself toward it, but behind her, the sound of Ghost’s heavy boots on the metal grate was closing in with impossible speed. He wasn't just chasing her; he was hunting her, cutting off her angles with mechanical precision.

The only sound was the metallic click of his safety being flicked off—a sound Eve knew better than her own heartbeat. She froze, her hand gripping the door handle, her back exposed. Ten feet away, Ghost had his sights settled exactly between her shoulder blades.

"Don't," he rasped.

It wasn't a command; it was a warning from a man who was fighting his own nature. His arms were steady, his grip perfect, and the "Ghost" behind the mask was screaming at him to eliminate the threat. Every second she stood there was a second he was failing his mission. His finger tightened on the trigger, taking up the slack, ready to put a round through her thigh to end the chase.

But the muscle wouldn't commit. He looked at the silhouette of her red hair against the steel door and he didn't see a traitor—he saw the only person who had reached for Simon Riley.

Eve didn't wait for him to find his resolve. She knew that silence was the sound of Ghost losing the battle with himself.

She threw the door open and vanished into the blinding rain of the night.

She tore across the roof, the wind whipping her red ponytail wildly. She reached the fire escape, sliding down the wet metal railings, her hands raw and stinging. She hit the alleyway floor, her boots splashing into the oily puddles. She was half a second from the perimeter—nearly free—when the screech of tires drowned out the storm.

A black SUV drifted into the alley, its headlights blinding her. Two men in unmarked tactical gear exploded from the side doors. Eve fought like a cornered animal, her movements a blur of desperate strikes and tactical counters, but she was exhausted and outnumbered. As she turned to strike the first man, the second lunged from her blind spot.

A heavy rifle butt slammed into her temple with a sickening, wet crack.

The world shattered into darkness. They hauled her limp body into the vehicle, the door slamming shut just as Ghost vaulted over the fire escape railing and hit the pavement.

He reached the spot where she had fallen, his lungs burning. The alley was empty, save for the rain and the crushing weight of the silence. She was gone.

The atmosphere in the briefing room was suffocating. The file was pulled up on the main screen, glowing like a radioactive wound. Price, Soap, and Gaz stood in a grim semi-circle, staring at the data logs that showed Morgan's credentials being used to leak classified movement patterns.

"It’s all here," Gaz muttered, his voice hollow. "Access codes, bank transfers... it looks airtight."

"It looks too goddamn perfect," Soap snapped, pacing the floor. "You saw her in Milan. You saw her in the shipyard. You’re telling me that was all an act?"

The heavy security doors hissed open with a sharp hydraulic sigh. Kate Laswell strode into the room, her tactical tablet in hand and her expression pinched with a cold, professional urgency. She didn't head for the console; she walked straight to the center of the group, stopping just beneath the glow of the monitors.

"Listen up. We just intercepted a high-priority transmission from an Shadow Company splinter cell. They’ve moved a high-value prisoner to a black site in the Urals."

She paused, looking directly at Ghost. "It’s Thorne. They didn't kill her, which tells me they need her for something only she can provide—likely those biometric keys to the chemical hub."

Laswell tapped a command on her tablet, and a map of the Urals replaced the accusatory red file on the main screen. "I suspect they framed her to isolate her from us. They knew that if the 141 thought she was a traitor, you’d let her run straight into their hands without a fight. And that’s exactly what happened."

She looked around the room, her expression grim. "I still can't prove that file is a fake, and I can't confirm her innocence. For all I know, she could be working both sides and this is just a fallout between thieves. But I do know she’s being interrogated by the most brutal cell the Shadows have left, and based on that, she won't last forty-eight hours."

Ghost stood in the shadows of the room, his gloved hands trembling so violently he had to clench them into white-knuckled fists.

His mind was a scorched-earth battlefield. The image of his gun pressed against her jaw—the terror and bewilderment in her green eyes—replayed on a loop, shredding his composure. He had been a second away from pulling the trigger. He had looked at the woman who had seen his bare face and he had seen a target.

The betrayal he felt wasn't hers—it was his own. He had defaulted to the machine. He had let the Ghost kill Simon again, and in doing so, he had practically handed her to the enemy.

"Ghost?" Price’s voice was cautious, reaching into the dark corner where his Lieutenant stood.

Ghost didn't look at him. He finally stepped into the light, his mask looking more like a death sentence than a piece of gear. The dark hollows of his eyes burned with a terrifying, redirected malice.

"Forty-eight hours," Ghost rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel and fire.

He didn't wait for an order.

"I'm going to the Urals. Alone if I have to."

The cell was a concrete tomb. Eve hung from the ceiling, the metal of the handcuffs biting deep into her wrists, her body barely supported by her aching knees. They had stripped her of her tactical gear and her weapons, leaving her vulnerable in the flickering overhead light. Her vibrant red hair was matted with blood, and her green eyes were clouded with pain and exhaustion.

The interrogator paced in front of her, his shadow dancing on the walls. His patience had finally evaporated. Without a word, he stepped forward and drove a combat knife deep into her side.

Eve let out a sharp, controlled cry of agony, her body convulsing as the steel tore through muscle. She gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full scream, but her breathing came in ragged, desperate hitches.

Suddenly, the heavy steel door hissed open.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Three silenced shots cut through the air with surgical precision. The interrogator collapsed before he could even register the breach.

Morgan’s head hung low, her chin resting on her chest as the world tilted. She felt her wrists being freed, the sudden release of tension sending her body crashing downward. She didn't hit the cold floor; instead, she fell into a pair of massive, trembling arms. The impact against his chest sent a fresh jolt of agony through her side, but she didn't pull away.

She couldn't lift her head. She didn't need to. She knew the scent of woodsmoke and cold rain. She knew the corded muscle beneath her cheek. With her last shred of strength, she forced the words past a throat that tasted like copper.

“I'm not... I’m not a traitor... Simon.”

She felt his grip tighten—a desperate, crushing hold—just before the darkness took her.

Ghost pulled her closer, his large hands bracketing her body as if he could physically shield her from the pain he had helped cause. The sight of her—bloodied, broken, and pale—hit him with the force of an improvised explosive device.

Two weeks later. The air in the underground shooting range was cold and tasted of lead. Eve stood at her lane, her movements stiff, her side still taped under her black compression shirt. She had spent the last ten days in small, windowless rooms, being grilled by internal affairs and intelligence officers who looked at her like she was a stain on the uniform.

The door behind her opened. She didn't turn. The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots told her everything she needed to know.

Ghost stepped into the lane next to her. He didn't speak. He just laid a rugged, encrypted data drive on the bench between them.

"Laswell verified the metadata I pulled from the source. It was a mirror-leak from a Shadow cell. You’ve been cleared by Command. Your record is clean."

Eve stopped firing. She didn't look at the drive. She didn't look at him. She just stared at the shredded paper target ten meters away.

"Cleared by Command," she repeated, her Manchester accent low and sharp, dripping with a cold, concentrated bitterness. "How lovely for me."

She finally turned her head. Her green eyes were freezing, devoid of the mischief or the heat they usually held. She looked at the white skull of his mask, but she was looking straight through it into his eyes.

"Did you need Laswell to hand you a goddamn file to know who I am? Did you need a digital signature to confirm that the woman who bled for this team wasn't a fuckin' traitor?"

Ghost’s posture stiffened. He didn't defend himself. He couldn't. He stood there, his massive frame feeling suddenly hollow, anchored to the floor by the sheer, cold weight of her stare.

She just looked at him—a long, agonizing stare that said everything she was holding back. Her eyes traced the lines of his mask with a look of profound, quiet disappointment. It was the look of someone who had trusted a man with her life, only to find a machine standing in his place.

She didn't wait for him to respond. She didn't want his apologies or his explanations. Eve reached out, snatched the drive from the bench, and shoved it into her pocket.

She holstered her weapon with a violent clack and left him standing there in the cold, gray silence of the range.

♤♡◇♧

The humid air of the Cambodian jungle felt like a physical weight against their skin. They were deep in the red zone, miles from any extraction point, moving through the ruins of an ancient temple complex.

Ghost led the way, his eyes scanning the dense foliage. He was focused, tactical—the machine once again. Eve followed a few paces behind, her silence a wall of ice that had stood between them since the day in the shooting range.

A flash of sunlight off a barrel in the high stone ruins caught her eye.

"Ghost!"

Before he could react, Eve lunged. She collided with him, her shoulder driving into his chest with enough force to throw his massive frame out of the line of fire.

CRACK.

The high-caliber round tore through the air where Ghost’s head had been a millisecond before. Instead, it found Eve. The impact spun her around, the bullet shredding through the meat of her upper arm. She hit the dirt hard, a sharp gasp escaping her teeth.

Ghost hit the ground, stunned. For a heartbeat, he was frozen, his mind unable to process the sight of her falling for him.

Eve didn't wait. Fueled by a raw, jagged surge of adrenaline, she rolled onto her stomach, unholster her sidearm and fired a single, lethal burst toward the ruins. The sniper tumbled from the stone ledge, dead before he hit the ground.

Silence returned to the jungle, heavy and suffocating.

Eve didn't wait for him to process what happened. She ignored the blood running down her arm, her eyes burning with a mix of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated spite. She stood up, snatched her rifle, and kept moving.

They found a hollowed-out wooden house on the edge of a forgotten village. The trek had been hours of agonizing silence. Ghost watched the back of her head, his eyes fixed on the red stain spreading down her arm. He wanted to speak, to reach out, but the cold aura radiating from her kept him paralyzed.

Inside the house, the air was stale and hot. Eve didn't look at him as they crossed the threshold. She began stripping her gear with violent, jerky movements. Her tactical vest hit the floor with a heavy thud, followed by her jacket, until she was standing in only a black tank top.

She reached for the medkit, her movements clumsy. Her hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the massive adrenaline crash and the sheer, boiling frustration she’d been carrying for weeks. She tried to pour antiseptic over the wound, but the bottle rattled against her skin, the liquid spilling uselessly down her arm.

Ghost stood in the shadows, watching her. He felt like he was drowning. The sight of her blood—spilled for him, after everything he had done—was a knife in his gut.

He moved.

Eve felt his presence before she saw him. She didn't pull away, but as he stepped into her space, she pointedly turned her head, staring at the peeling wooden wall.

Ghost didn't say a word. He reached up and pulled off his tactical gloves, dropping them on a crate. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the hem of his mask and pulled it over his head.

He didn't want to be the Lieutenant. He couldn't be the Ghost. Not right now.

He stepped closer, his bare, scarred hands reaching for her arm. Eve remained frozen, her gaze fixed on the wall, her breathing shallow and jagged. Simon was infinitely delicate. He cleaned the wound with a tenderness that felt like a plea for forgiveness. He stitched the deep gash and wrapped it in clean white gauze, his fingers lingering on her skin as if he were afraid she would vanish if he let go.

He finished, but he didn't retreat. He stayed right there, his chest inches from hers, the heat of his body radiating through the humid air.

"Why, Eve?" He didn't look up. "I gave you every reason to let me fall."

Eve didn't move for a second. Then, her head tilted, and she snapped her gaze toward him. Her green eyes were swimming with tears that she refused to let fall—tears of rage, of hurt, of exhausted love.

"Because I’m the only one who gives a fuck!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "I was on your side even when you had that gun to my throat. That’s my curse, Simon. Not yours."

He didn't answer with words. He grabbed her face with both hands, his thumbs catching the edge of her jaw, and crashed his lips onto hers.

It was a collision of pure, unadulterated passion and desperate hunger. It was an open-mouthed, messy, starving kiss, their tongues tangling as the weeks of silence and doubt burned away in an instant. Eve let out a soft, broken sound and reached out, her fingers fisting into his tactical vest, hauling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them. She kissed him back with the same ferocity, her teeth grazing his lip, her soul pouring into him as they finally, violently, found their way back to each other.

The abandoned house was a sweltering cage of heat and shadows. Outside, the jungle hummed with a primal energy that matched the intensity inside the room.

Eve lay on the worn floorboards, her body completely bare, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat that shimmered in the low light. Simon was a mountain of muscle above her, his combat shirt discarded, his tactical trousers unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips as he moved within her.

Eve’s knees were flexed deep against her ribs, her thighs acting as a vice, pinning Simon’s powerful frame against her. She had her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and the nape of his neck, pulling him down, needing to feel every inch of his weight.

Simon’s chest was pressed hard against her breasts, their heartbeats slamming together in a frantic, uneven rhythm. He had one arm braced against the floor for leverage, while the other was hooked behind her neck, his hand tangling in the damp, red silk of her hair. His knees were tucked beneath hers, anchoring him as he drove into her with a rhythmic, heavy persistence.

With every deep, masterful thrust, his dark eyes remained locked on hers, searching her soul in a way he never could with the mask on. He was fascinated by her, captivated by the way her features softened and broke under his touch.

Eve’s eyes were half-closed, hooded with a hazy, drug-like pleasure. With every impact of his body against hers, she emitted soft, airy moans. She wasn't fighting him anymore; she was surrendering, her body arching to meet him, her fingers digging into the corded muscle of his back.

Simon’s breathing was labored, a jagged symphony of exertion. Between their locked gazes, he let out low, guttural growls directly into her mouth—sounds of pure, unadulterated possession and relief. This wasn't just a release of physical tension; it was a total surrender of the Ghost. In the sweltering heat of that forgotten house, there were no lies, no files, and no doubt—only the raw, pulsing reality of two soldiers finally finding peace in the middle of a war.

Ghost’s thrusts became more relentless, driven by the sharp, desperate moans that Eve let out with every impact. His pace was guided by her reactions; he chased the sound of her pleasure, his body snapping forward with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the old wooden floorboards groan beneath them.

Simon buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent and the iron tang of the jungle, his teeth grazing her skin in a silent, primal claim. He was no longer a soldier following an objective; he was a man losing himself in the only person who made him feel alive.

The friction of their skin—slick, hot, and inseparable—and the raw power of his movements pushed them both toward a breaking point. Simon’s hand, still hooked behind her head, tightened its grip, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw as he watched the exact moment her control began to shatter.

As they neared the edge, Eve’s body arched violently, her spine curving off the floor as she sought to bring him even deeper. Her fingers dug deep into the scarred muscle of his shoulders, her nails leaving white marks against his skin. She reached the peak first, a long, broken moan spilling directly into his mouth as her internal muscles clamped around him in a series of rhythmic, exquisite tremors.

The sound, and the sheer, crushing honesty of her surrender, was Ghost’s undoing. He let out a final, deep growl that was more a vibration of pure, sensual relief than a sound—a noise that originated from somewhere deep in his chest. His body tensed, every muscle coiling tight as he followed her into the abyss, pouring himself into her with a final, devastating surge.

He collapsed against her, his weight heavy and grounding, pinning her into the floorboards as the last of the frantic energy finally spent itself. For several long minutes, the only sound in the house was the ragged, synchronized rhythm of their breathing. Simon kept his face hidden in her hair, his arms wrapped around her with a fierce, trembling possessiveness, finally at peace in the absolute surrender of the woman in his arms.

♤♡◇♧

The heavy steel door of the safehouse slammed shut with a violent, metallic crash that echoed through the hollow apartment. Eve was vibrating with a jagged, white-hot fury, her chest heaving as she tore off her tactical gloves and hurled them against the wall. With shaky, aggressive fingers, she unbuckled her tactical vest, letting the heavy plates thud onto the floor with a dull, final weight.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" she screamed, spinning around to face him. Her green eyes were blown wide, emerald fire cutting through the dim light. "I don’t need a shadow, Simon! And I sure as fuck don’t need a bodyguard treating me like some goddamn rookie in the middle of a hot zone!"

Simon was already in the process of stripping his own gear. He ripped his gloves off first, his hands pausing only briefly on the buckles of his vest as his massive frame radiated a cold, suffocating pressure. He had reached the limit of his patience miles ago, somewhere between the extraction and the silent, tension-filled drive.

"You were overextended, Thorne," he rasped, finally ripping his vest free and casting it aside. The heavy gear hit the floorboards as his voice dropped into a low, dangerous vibration that warned her to stop. "You were reckless."

"I was doing my job!" she spat, stepping into his space, her chin tilted up in defiance. "Stay out of my lane."

Ghost moved with predatory speed. In one fluid motion, he reached out and caught her throat. His grip wasn't meant to choke, but to dominate—a massive hand pinning her in place to force her silence. Eve didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a snarl of pure spite, her arm snapping up to break his grip with a practiced, brutal twist. Before he could reset, she brought her hand across his mask in a sharp, stinging crack. The slap echoed in the quiet room.

For a heartbeat, the air turned to ice. Ghost didn't move, his head barely tilted from the blow. Then, he let out a low, guttural sound—breath catching in a throat tight with a sudden, dark heat. He lunged again, his hand finding her neck once more, but this time he didn't just hold her. He drove her backward, his boots rhythmic and heavy against the floorboards as he forced her toward the wall.

Eve’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, her defiance flickering for a second as she saw the sheer intensity in his gaze. He slammed her back against the brick wall, his body a wall of solid muscle pinning her into the masonry. Eve tried to buck against him, her hands clawing at his forearms, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

"Enough..." Simon growled directly into her face. His pupils were blown out, his breathing as jagged and heavy as hers. The friction of her struggling against him was sending a jolt of raw, agonizing electricity straight to his gut.

Simon could feel her pulse hammering against his palm. She didn't back down; a dark, reckless smirk pulled at her lip "Or fuckin' what?"

With a desperate surge of strength, she twisted her hip and shoved her palms into his chest, managing to slip under his arm. She bolted for the hallway, needing the distance, needing to breathe. She didn't make it three steps. Simon reached out, his hand hooking firmly around her waist. He didn't pull her back—he simply hoisted her up. In one effortless move, he threw her over his massive shoulder like a piece of gear.

"Let me down! Put me the fuck down, Simon!" Eve shouted, her fists drumming a frantic rhythm against his back. She kicked her legs, her boots thudding against his chest, but he didn't even grunt.

"You’re a fuckin’ menace, Thorne" he rasped, his voice vibrating through her entire body.

He marched into the bedroom and tossed her onto the mattress. Eve scrambled to sit up, her hair a wild halo of red, but he was faster. He climbed over her, his weight pinning her flat against the sheets. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head, and flipped her onto her stomach in one masterful move. Eve gasped as she felt the full, crushing weight of him settle over her back. The air left her lungs as he pressed her into the mattress, and then she felt it—the unmistakable, rigid heat of him slamming against her ass through the layers of their combat trousers.

Simon dragged his knee across the mattress, hooking it behind hers and forcing her legs wide. The movement hitched her hips up, grinding her directly into his hardness. Eve let out a low, involuntary moan into the pillow, her body betraying her with a sudden, treacherous ache.

"Is this what you wanted, Morgan?" Simon hissed into her ear, his breath hot and ragged.

He kept his weight heavy on her, his chest a furnace against her spine. He released her wrists long enough to slide his hand down, reaching for the fastening of her trousers. He didn't hesitate; he shoved his hand inside, his bare fingers diving through the silk of her underwear until they found her. She was slick, her body already weeping for him despite the rage still humming in her veins.

"Fuck..." Eve whispered into the sheets, her fingers clawing at the fabric, bunching the linen into tight, white-knuckled fists. The sensation of his fingers exploring her, combined with the rhythmic pressure of his hips grinding into her ass, was overwhelming.

Simon’s breath was a jagged symphony in her ear. He gripped her neck again, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, forcing her chin up until she was looking at the dark shadows of the room.

"Ask me," he commanded, his voice a low, terrifying rasp. He increased the friction of his hips, his fingers working her with a steady, punishing rhythm. "Ask me to fuck you."

Eve buried her face back into the mattress, a sob of frustration and need breaking in her throat. She tried to shake her head, but his grip on her neck tightened—firm, possessive, and unyielding.

"Say it, Morgan. Ask me."

The dam finally broke. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the fire he was starting between her legs.

"Fuck me, Simon..." she choked out, her voice a broken, desperate velvet. "Please... just fuck me."

"Good girl," Simon growled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

He moved with mechanical precision. He lunged back, his weight leaving her for a split second. In that heartbeat, he flipped her onto her back, his large hands catching her ankles. He yanked her tactical boots off, casting them aside with a heavy thud, before unfastening her trousers and stripping them down her legs in one powerful, decisive motion.

Eve didn't wait. Her own hands were moving just as fast, pulling her shirt over her head and throwing it into the shadows, her breathing coming in sharp, jagged lunges as her bare skin met the cool air of the room.

He ripped his mask over his head, casting it aside, and launched himself into her space. He caught her legs, hooking them under her knees and driving them upward, folding her body until her thighs were pressed tight against her chest. He dove between her legs, his head disappearing into the junction of her thighs. The first contact of his mouth was brutal—an intense, starving heat that made Eve’s entire world shatter into white light. He began to devour her, his tongue and lips moving with a primal, rhythmic ferocity that bypassed any sense of gentleness.

Simon hoisted her hips higher, settling her calves over his broad shoulders to gain better purchase. He dug his fingers into the soft meat of her inner thighs, his grip bruisingly firm as he hauled her even closer to his face.

"Simon—! God!" Eve cried out, her voice a broken, high-pitched rasp that echoed off the ceiling. She was drowning in it. Her back arched off the mattress, her spine curving into a bow as she fought for breath. Her fingers sought purchase, finding the short, damp hair at the nape of his neck and tangling deep within the strands, pulling him closer. Her moans turned into loud, uninhibited pleas, her hips stuttering in a frantic search for the peak. Simon didn't slow down; he only intensified the assault until she reached the peak, trembling violently under the force of her climax.

The waves of Eve’s first climax were still crashing over her, leaving her muscles twitching and her skin hypersensitive, but Simon wasn't finished. He pulled back abruptly, stripped his combat shirt over his head, and discarded it in the dark, then moved with a mechanical, frantic speed to free himself from his trousers.

He climbed back onto the mattress, and while Eve still trembled from the aftershocks, he quickly flipped her over onto her stomach again. His knees drove around her legs, trapping her in place. Before she could even catch her breath, he reached down, hooking his hands under her hip bones and hauling her upward. Eve was left pinned in a vulnerable arch—her breasts and forearms pressed deep into the mattress, her hips elevated and exposed to him.

Without a second of warning, he drove into her.

The impact was brutal, a sheer force of nature that made the headboard slam against the wall. Eve’s vision blurred as he buried himself deep inside her, the sensation colliding with the tail end of her first orgasm. He didn't give her time to adjust; he clamped his hands onto her waist, his fingers digging into her skin like iron talons, and established a rhythm that was agonizingly intense.

"Simon—!" Eve’s scream was cut short as she shoved her face into the sheets to stifle the sound.

The room was filled with the rhythmic, heavy thud of his body against hers. Every thrust was a powerhouse of muscle and intent. Simon was a mountain of heat behind her, his breathing turning into a jagged, guttural symphony of exertion.

"Bloody hell..." he managed to rasp out, the words sounding like they were being dragged through fire and gravel.

He stayed focused, his movements unrelenting as he chased her next peak. The friction and the raw power of his pace pushed Eve over the edge for a second time. Her body tightened, her internal muscles clamping around him as a second, even more violent wave of pleasure shattered through her. Simon felt the change, his own control snapping as he let out a final, primal sound of relief, spilling into her with a devastating force.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the frantic, labored sound of their breathing. Simon collapsed forward for a second before rolling to his side, taking Eve with him. He didn't let her go; he wrapped a massive arm around her waist, hauling her back against his chest in a crushing, possessive hold.

They lay there in the dark, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks of the collision. Eve was in a trance, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, her body molding perfectly into the hard curves of his frame. Finally, she managed to suck enough air into her lungs to speak, her voice a low, raspy velvet of pure satisfaction.

"Fuck, Simon..." she whispered, her eyes closed. "You're a goddamn animal."

Simon didn't move. He kept his face buried in the damp, red silk of her hair, his chest heaving against her back. He tightened his grip on her, pulling her so close there wasn't a breath of air between them.

The final week of the mission arrived with the same deceptive calm as the rest of the suburb. White fences gleamed beneath the soft glow of porch lights, lawns carried the scent of fresh-cut grass, and Brenda still waved far too cheerfully from across the street, her endless casserole dishes a constant reminder of the strange life you’d been living. Yet beneath that postcard-perfect image, you could feel the weight of the end pressing down—each glance with Leon edged with the unspoken question: what happens after this?

HQ’s call came the night before extraction. Umbrella’s operatives had been neutralized, evidence secured, and your cover assignment officially ended. By morning, you’d hand back the house keys and return to being just two agents with badges and files—not rings and routines. You were supposed to feel relief, but instead the thought left you restless and hollow. The house was too quiet, as though it knew it was about to be stripped of the warmth it had borrowed. The rooms still carried traces of you both: laughter echoing faintly in the kitchen, the scent of burnt lasagna clinging like an inside joke, the low rumble of Leon’s laugh drifting through the living room.

Sleep eluded you. You sat up in bed, staring at the fake wedding photo still pinned to the fridge across the hall, the stiff smiles now softened in your memory. That’s when you heard it—Leon’s knock. Not sharp or professional, but soft, hesitant. He stepped inside, hair tousled, sweatpants and a plain shirt replacing his usual tactical edge. He looked less like the legendary agent whose name carried too much weight, and more like the man who had fallen asleep beside you during late-night surveillance shifts.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice thick with something unsaid.

“So are you.”

He lingered at the doorframe before crossing the room to sit on the edge of your bed. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to memorize every detail before it slipped away. Finally, he exhaled.

“I don’t want this to end.” His tone was steady, though you could hear the storm behind it. “Not the mission. Not… us.”

Your throat tightened. “Leon—”

“I know it sounds insane. We were supposed to fake a marriage. Maybe it started that way, but—” His hand brushed yours, thumb tracing small circles. “It stopped being fake a long time ago.”

The silence felt fragile, like glass holding a whole world inside. You laughed softly, nerves bubbling through the smile tugging at your lips. “Good. Because I was afraid I’d have to be the one to say it first.”

Relief washed over him so vividly it made your chest ache. He pressed his forehead against yours, and when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or stolen between mission briefings. It was slow, deliberate—every second steeped in the weight of everything you’d been holding back. The walls of the fake house didn’t matter. The neighbors didn’t matter. For once, it was just you and him.

Morning light crept through the blinds, gilding tangled sheets and warm skin. For the first time in weeks, the house didn’t feel like a set. It felt like home. Cheryl arrived promptly at nine with her clipboard and overenthusiastic smile, chirping about “the next lucky newlyweds” as you handed back the keys. You nodded politely, but when you slid into the car with Leon, you noticed the gold ring still on your finger. You started to remove it—then paused, seeing he hadn’t taken his off either. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Back at HQ, bureaucracy took over. Debriefings, forms, endless reports. The mission reduced to black-and-white text, stripped of the color that had defined it for you both. Yet when Leon walked out beside you afterward, his hand brushed yours and didn’t retreat. In broad daylight, in front of colleagues and strangers alike, he didn’t let go. No cover. No neighbors. No charade. Just you.

Weeks later, life had shifted into a new rhythm. No surveillance gear humming in the background, no Brenda knocking at your door with questions about children. Instead, it was Leon’s jacket slung casually over your chair, his mug sitting beside yours in the sink, a playlist you’d made together filling the kitchen as you cooked—burning Brenda’s lasagna recipe spectacularly but laughing until you cried. On nights when nightmares clawed at you both, comfort came not from pretending to be married, but from knowing you truly weren’t alone.

One evening, Leon stood in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, fixing the jammed drawer he had once silently repaired during the mission. You caught yourself smiling, realizing just how much had changed—and how much had stayed the same.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The mission had gone spectacularly wrong.

Soap, Ghost, Price, and Gaz sat chained to a grimy brick wall in an abandoned warehouse deep in enemy territory. Their gear had been stripped, leaving them vulnerable and frustrated. The flickering light above cast sharp shadows, reflecting the dismal situation.

And then there was you. Sweet, affectionate, sunshine-you. The one everyone on base adored for your kind words, easy smiles, and penchant for baking cookies when morale was low. You were also the one currently tied to a chair across the room, a cut on your cheek and a split lip standing out against your otherwise calm expression.

“Damn it,” Soap muttered under his breath. “They shouldn’t have gotten their hands on her.”

“Keep your voice down, Johnny,” Ghost hissed, eyes locked on you. You were unnervingly quiet, your head tilted as if listening for something none of them could hear.

Price’s gruff voice cut through their tense whispers. “Focus, lads. We’ll get out of this. She’s tougher than she looks.”

Gaz chuckled humorlessly. “That’s an understatement.”

One of the captors, a stocky man with a knife strapped to his thigh, approached you. He leaned close, clearly mocking your supposed helplessness. “What’s a girl like you doing with these military dogs, huh? Bet you’ve never seen a real fight.”

The team stiffened. They’d seen you train—fluid movements and unnerving accuracy with a knife—but you’d always been modest about your skills. Too modest. Now, they wondered if you’d been holding back.

“Don’t,” Price started, but Ghost’s sharp look silenced him.

Then you smiled. It wasn’t your usual sweet smile but something sharper, darker. “You’ve made a mistake,” you said softly, your voice carrying a chill that made the team shiver.

The man laughed, but it died in his throat when you surged forward, chair and all. The move was so fast it caught him off guard as you rammed the chair leg into his foot. With a curse, he stumbled closer, and that was all you needed.

The warehouse erupted into chaos.

You twisted your wrists, a flick of movement revealing you’d already been working on your restraints. With a sudden lunge, you snatched the knife from the man’s thigh, cutting yourself free in one fluid motion. Before anyone could react, you flipped the chair backward into another enemy rushing at you, sending him sprawling.

Soap’s jaw dropped. “Bloody hell—”

“She’s showing off,” Ghost muttered, but there was a note of awe in his voice.

The knife in your hand blurred as you spun, ducking low and driving it into the gut of the first captor. You used his body as a shield to block a shot fired in panic before vaulting over him with an agility that seemed almost supernatural.

One by one, the captors fell, your movements precise, deadly, and terrifyingly efficient. You weren’t just fighting—you were dismantling them. The team watched, stunned, as you rolled across the floor to grab another knife, sending it spinning through the air to hit a target across the room with unerring accuracy.

When the last enemy crumpled to the ground, you stood in the middle of the chaos, blood dripping from your lip and a knife clenched in your hand. Your chest heaved as you turned to face the team, and for a moment, silence reigned.

Soap was the first to speak. “What the hell was that?”

You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, your usual cheery demeanor returning like a switch had been flipped. “What? Didn’t think I could handle myself?”

Gaz sputtered. “Handle yourself? You just took out a dozen guys like it was nothing!”

Ghost leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Care to explain, Black Widow?”

You froze, the nickname catching you off guard. “Where’d you hear that?”

Price chuckled, shaking his head. “We have our ways. Didn’t think we’d find out about your old unit, did you?”

You gave a sheepish shrug. “It’s not something I advertise.”

“Clearly,” Gaz muttered, his voice tinged with admiration.

Soap’s grin spread across his face. “Sunshine by day, Black Widow by night. I think I’m in love.”

You rolled your eyes, moving to free them from their restraints. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s get out of here before reinforcements arrive.”

As you worked, Ghost’s low voice cut through the air. “You’ve been hiding things.”

“Maybe.” You glanced at him with a playful smile. “But you can’t say I didn’t save your arse.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he simply stared at you, his mind reeling with everything he’d just witnessed. The team was definitely looking at you differently now, and you knew you’d have a lot of questions to answer back at base.

But for now, you allowed yourself a small, satisfied grin. They’d finally seen what you were capable of.

And you had a feeling they’d never underestimate you again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The med bay buzzed with the soft hum of machinery and muffled voices. Everyone was busy cleaning up cuts and bruises, but the energy was lighter than usual, a mix of relief and the lingering adrenaline from surviving the mission. You sat on the edge of a cot, dabbing a disinfectant-soaked cloth against your cheek, pretending not to notice the heavy stares from the rest of Task Force 141.

Soap broke the silence first, as expected. “Alright, lass,” he drawled, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “You’re gonna have to spill. Black Widow? Seriously?”

You gave him a sheepish grin, shrugging. “It was just a nickname from my old unit. Not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Gaz scoffed, throwing up his hands. “You took out a dozen armed men while tied to a bloody chair. That’s not ‘not a big deal.’ That’s action movie-level insanity.”

Price chuckled as he adjusted the bandage on his arm. “Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting it. You’ve been keeping secrets from us.”

“Didn’t think it mattered,” you admitted, your voice soft. “I just… didn’t want to be that person here. I like being… well, me.”

“Sunshine with a bite,” Soap teased, nudging Gaz. “You lot remember the cookies she made last week? This is the same person.”

“Terrifyingly wholesome,” Gaz said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “You’re a walking contradiction.”

Across the room, Ghost stood leaning against a table, arms crossed, his gaze unreadable as always. “You’re wasted on cookies and small talk,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You should’ve told us.”

You met his gaze, your expression softening. “I like being part of the team this way. I didn’t want to be… her again unless I had to.”

Soap, ever the playful one, made a mock swooning motion. “And she’s humble, too. God help me, I’m falling for her.”

“Pipe down, Johnny,” Price said, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his tone. “Let her breathe.”

Ghost’s dark eyes flicked to Soap, and though his face was hidden, his body language screamed annoyance. “Show some respect.”

“Relax, Ghost. I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Soap retorted, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Gaz joined in, laughing. “Speak for yourself. I’m not ‘falling,’ but I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Never thought someone could be so sweet and so dangerous. You’re like a cupcake with a grenade inside.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “That’s… an interesting way to put it.”

Ghost, however, stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you. While Soap and Gaz bantered, he watched you tend to your wounds, the way your hands moved with practiced precision. He was used to efficiency and strength, but seeing that raw skill paired with your usual warmth stirred something he hadn’t felt in years.

Price interrupted his thoughts. “Enough chatter. She saved our arses out there. That’s what matters.”

“Damn right,” Soap said, throwing you a wink. “You ever decide to switch from sunshine back to Black Widow full-time, I’ll be your number one fan.”

You rolled your eyes, a small blush creeping up your neck. “I think I’ll stick to sunshine for now.”

“Good,” Ghost said abruptly, his voice cutting through the lightheartedness. Everyone turned to him, surprised. “You’re fine as you are.”

It wasn’t much, but coming from Ghost, it felt like the highest of compliments. Your heart gave an unexpected flutter as you met his steady gaze, warmth spreading through you.

Soap whistled. “Careful, Ghost. You’re gonna make her blush.”

“Shut it, Johnny,” Ghost growled, though he didn’t look away from you.

Gaz smirked. “Looks like someone’s smitten.”

“Enough,” Price ordered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “We’ve had a long day. Get cleaned up and get some rest.”

The team dispersed, but not before Soap gave you a dramatic bow. “Seriously, lass. You’re a bloody legend.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as they filed out, leaving you alone with Ghost. He stayed by the table, silent and still, until you looked at him.

“Ghost?” you prompted, tilting your head.

He pushed off the table and approached, stopping just a foot away. His voice was softer now, almost gentle. “You’re not just Black Widow or sunshine. You’re you. That’s what makes you dangerous. And special.”

Your breath caught at the unexpected words, and before you could respond, he turned and walked out, leaving you with a pounding heart and a small, secret smile.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Who’s in awe? Gaz. He can’t stop replaying the fight in his mind, marveling at how you went from cheerful to deadly in an instant. He’s full of admiration and will probably start calling you Captain Marvel or Wonder Woman just to mess with you.

Who’s crushing hard? Soap. His playful teasing ramps up tenfold, and he’s suddenly finding every excuse to be around you. Whether he’s asking you to teach him your knife tricks or just cracking jokes to make you laugh, his crush is painfully obvious.

Who’s completely in love? Ghost. He doesn’t say much, but the way he watches you and the rare moments of vulnerability in his voice speak volumes. He’s drawn to your balance of strength and warmth, though he’d probably take his feelings to his grave before admitting them outright.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Dance of Danger and Desire

Life at base became… different after the mission.

Price treated you with a newfound respect, often calling on you for input during mission briefings or consulting you on strategy. He even let slip a rare compliment here and there, though his usual stoicism kept them brief. “You’ve earned your place,” he said one day, nodding approvingly after you dissected an enemy’s potential weak points in record time.

Gaz? He couldn’t stop talking about you. “I mean, did you see her?” he’d say, gesturing wildly during downtime. “Black Widow, flipping off chairs and throwing knives like it’s second nature. She’s insane—in the best way!” He wasn’t crushing, but he made sure everyone knew you were someone to respect (and not piss off).

Soap? Well, Soap had it bad. He hovered more, cracking jokes to make you laugh, conveniently showing up whenever you were in the gym. He even bought a new knife, claiming he wanted you to teach him your tricks. “Come on, lass,” he’d say, grinning ear to ear. “You can’t keep all the secrets to yourself. Show me how to be deadly and adorable, aye?”

But Ghost? Ghost was different.

He didn’t hover, joke, or brag like the others. Instead, he watched. His eyes followed you during drills, caught every subtle movement during sparring sessions. He lingered longer during conversations, his quiet presence always looming, always intense. He asked questions about you—not directly, but through Price or Gaz. “Where’d she learn to fight like that?” “What’s her deal with the knives?” “She always this sweet?”

The longer he watched, the more conflicted he became. He wanted you—desperately—but he didn’t know how to approach you. You were too… you. Sweet, deadly, and affectionate. Every smile you gave him, every kind word, every brush of your hand against his when you passed gear—it all drove him mad. He couldn’t get enough.

But he was terrified.

What if you saw him as just a cold, broken soldier? What if he made a move and you rejected him? Or worse—what if you laughed at him? He spent weeks trying to bury his feelings, only for them to bubble over with every soft glance and gentle word you gave him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Breaking Point

It happened during a late-night briefing. You and Ghost were alone in the dimly lit command room, reviewing intel on an upcoming mission. You leaned over the table, pointing out weak spots on a map, your voice soft and thoughtful as you explained your plan.

Ghost wasn’t listening.

He couldn’t. The light caught the curve of your face, the way your lips moved as you spoke. His chest tightened painfully, his pulse pounding in his ears. You turned to look at him, brows furrowing slightly. “Ghost? You okay?”

He snapped.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing your cheek. Your eyes widened, but you didn’t pull away. His voice, rough and low, trembled slightly. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” you whispered, breathless.

“This.” He stepped closer, his hands moving to your shoulders. His gaze burned into yours, desperate and full of conflict. “You—you're driving me mad. Every time you smile, every time you speak, every damn time you look at me—I can’t take it.”

You blinked, stunned. “Ghost—”

“Simon,” he interrupted, his voice softer now. “My name is Simon.”

Then, before he could lose his nerve, he pressed you against the wall, his lips crashing onto yours in a kiss so full of fire and longing it left you gasping. His hands framed your face, as if he was afraid you’d disappear, his body trembling with the force of his emotions.

For a terrifying moment, he thought he’d made a mistake. He started to pull away, mumbling, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

But your hands reached up, tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered against his lips, your voice soft but firm.

He froze, and then his resolve shattered completely. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as he deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of his pent-up desire and emotion into you. You responded with equal fervor, your touch gentle and grounding, a perfect contrast to his intensity.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, your breath mingling in the quiet room. Ghost stared at you, vulnerability etched into his every feature. “I thought you’d push me away,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

You smiled, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along the back of his neck. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m… me,” he said simply, his usual confidence stripped away.

You shook your head, your expression tender. “And I’m me. Apparently very bad at hiding my feelings for you.”

His lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile. “Feelings, huh?”

“Shut up, Simon.”

He kissed you again, softer this time, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From that day forward, everything changed. Ghost was still Ghost—silent, brooding, and intimidating—but there was a softness in his gaze whenever he looked at you. The team noticed, of course.

Soap was the first to call him out. “So, Ghost, any chance I’ll get lessons on how to woo the Black Widow?”

Ghost’s glare was enough to make Soap back off—temporarily. Gaz smirked knowingly, while Price simply shook his head with a small smile.

You, however, had no complaints. For all his stoicism and gruffness, Simon Riley loved with the same intensity he fought with. Fiercely, protectively, and with everything he had. And you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vulnerability and Desire

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the desk. Ghost—Simon—had just returned from a long day of training and debriefings, and he wanted nothing more than to be near you. You didn’t disappoint, slipping into his quarters with your usual grace, flashing him that soft, affectionate smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

Now, you found yourself pressed against the wall, your hands buried in the fabric of his shirt as his lips devoured yours. His kisses were rough, demanding, but there was a tenderness beneath them—a quiet desperation that only made your heart race faster. His hands rested on your waist, fingers tightening whenever you tugged him closer.

“Simon…” you murmured between kisses, your voice soft but insistent.

That single word sent a shiver down his spine. Hearing you call him by his name, the one so few people knew, made him weak. You didn’t call him Ghost, didn’t treat him like some untouchable figure. To you, he was just Simon—a man who wanted, needed, craved you.

He growled low in his throat, pressing you tighter against him. “You drive me insane, you know that?” he muttered, his lips trailing down your jaw to your neck.

“Good,” you teased breathlessly, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly.

He bit back a groan, his composure unraveling with every touch, every sound you made. When you moaned his name—Simon—right into his ear, so sweetly, so reverently, it was over.

A guttural sound escaped his lips as his body betrayed him completely, his hips jerking involuntarily. He stiffened, his breathing ragged as the heat of embarrassment flooded his face. He tried to pull back, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a shaky breath. “Shit… I—”

You blinked up at him, a mixture of confusion and realization dawning on your face. “Oh,” you said softly, your cheeks tinting pink.

Simon’s hands moved to your shoulders, as if bracing himself for rejection. “I didn’t mean for—”

“Simon,” you interrupted gently, cupping his face in your hands. “It’s okay.”

He froze, his wide, vulnerable eyes meeting yours. “It’s not—I should’ve—”

“Hey.” Your voice was soft but firm, grounding him. “It’s fine. Really.”

When he didn’t respond, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, your fingers brushing through his hair soothingly. His tense frame began to relax, though he still looked uncertain, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” you said, your voice filled with sincerity. “It just means you… felt something, right?”

He huffed out a weak laugh, shaking his head. “Felt something? I felt everything, love. And now I’ve made a mess of myself.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him again, this time slow and deliberate. “It happens. And I don’t mind helping.”

His brows furrowed as you stepped back, heading toward his small dresser to grab him a clean pair of boxers. He watched in stunned silence as you moved with ease, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

You handed the clothes to him, your smile warm and teasing. “Go clean up. I’ll wait.”

Simon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on you. You weren’t disgusted or uncomfortable. If anything, you were… amused, maybe even endeared. He felt his chest tighten with an overwhelming sense of affection.

“(Y/N),” he said quietly, his voice filled with gratitude.

“Go,” you urged gently, shooing him toward the bathroom with a loving smile.

When he returned a few minutes later, freshly changed and still slightly pink-faced, you were sitting on his bed, waiting for him. You patted the spot beside you, and he hesitated before joining you.

You immediately wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, placing soft little kisses on his shoulder. “Better?”

He let out a deep sigh, leaning into your touch, your affection. “Better.”

For a while, you sat there in comfortable silence, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along his back. He closed his eyes, letting the tension melt away under your care.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “So are you, Simon.”

He tightened his hold on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. In that moment, he let himself feel it all—the love, the comfort, the safety he found in your arms.

And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe he deserved it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Love That Disarms

Simon Riley had always been a man of control. In combat, his precision was unmatched. On missions, his focus was unshakeable. Even in the chaos of battle, he maintained a tight grip on his emotions and actions.

But with you? Control was a thing of the past.

He didn’t understand it—couldn’t, really. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word from you sent his carefully built walls crumbling to the ground. You were his undoing in the best way, and it terrified him just as much as it thrilled him.

Tonight was no different.

The two of you were tangled in the sheets of his bunk, the dim light of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows on your skin. Your hands moved over him with a mix of tenderness and confidence, as if you knew every scar, every inch of him, and loved it all the same. Your lips followed suit, trailing kisses along his jaw, his neck, his chest, leaving him breathless and aching for more.

“(Y/N)…” His voice was low and strained, his hands gripping your waist as if to ground himself.

You smiled against his skin, your touch never faltering. “I’m here, Simon. I’ve got you.”

And that was the problem. You always had him. In ways no one ever had before.

The warmth of your body against his, the soft sounds you made as he held you closer—it all overwhelmed him. He tried to pace himself, tried to focus on you the way you deserved, but every time he gave in to you, it was like a dam breaking. The sensation of your lips, your hands, the way you whispered his name—it was too much, too perfect.

He didn’t stand a chance.

When he finally let himself go, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his body trembled with release, he felt equal parts blissful and embarrassed. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding as he tightened his grip on you, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin.

You stroked his back gently, your fingers threading through his hair. “What’s wrong?” you asked softly, concern lacing your tone.

“Too fast,” he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. “It’s always too fast with you.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. His mask was off, his expression raw and vulnerable in a way few ever saw. Your heart ached at the sight.

“Simon,” you said gently, cupping his face in your hands. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he argued, his brows furrowing. “You deserve better than this—better than me falling apart like a bloody idiot every time.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly. “You’re not an idiot. You’re human. And if I make you feel this way, it just means you trust me enough to let go.”

He stared at you, his eyes searching yours for any hint of insincerity. But all he found was love. Pure, unfiltered love.

“You’re not disappointed?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Disappointed?” you repeated, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Simon, you make me feel loved and wanted every single time we’re together. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

His throat tightened, and he pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. “You’re too good to me,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, your arms wrapping around him. “I could say the same about you.”

For a while, you just held each other, the room filled with the quiet hum of your breathing. Simon’s hands traced lazy patterns on your back, his earlier frustration melting away under your soothing touch.

Eventually, you pulled back, your lips quirking into a playful smile. “Now, come on. Let me clean you up.”

Simon groaned, his face heating up again. “You don’t have to—”

“Hush,” you interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. “Let me take care of you for once.”

He sighed, reluctantly letting you slip out of bed to grab a warm cloth. When you returned, you knelt beside him, your touch gentle as you cleaned him up. He watched you in silence, his heart swelling with affection at the care in your every movement.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said softly, his voice laced with awe.

You glanced up at him, a teasing smile on your lips. “Good unbelievable or bad unbelievable?”

He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. “The best kind.”

When you were done, you climbed back into bed, curling up against his side. He held you close, his fingers tangled in your hair as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

You smiled, your eyes drifting shut as you nuzzled into his chest. “Yes, you do. Every bit of me, Simon.”

And for the first time in years, Simon Riley believed it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Lover’s Devotion

Simon Riley lay beside you, his mask discarded, his dark eyes soft in the low light of the room. It had been a long day, filled with briefings, sparring matches, and stolen moments together. Now, with the rest of the base quiet, it was just the two of you—no missions, no danger, just the space to breathe and be together.

You turned your head on the pillow to look at him, your smile sweet and genuine. “What’re you thinking about?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes. You had a way of undoing him without even trying—a smile, a laugh, the way you touched him with such care, as if he wasn’t made of sharp edges and shadows. And when you were together, intimately? It was more than he could handle sometimes. You made him feel everything, breaking through his carefully guarded walls like no one else ever had.

But tonight, Simon had a plan—a way to show you exactly how much you meant to him.

“I’m thinking…” He shifted closer, his voice low and deliberate, “that maybe I’ve been a bit selfish.”

You raised a brow, confused. “Selfish? How?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You always put me first,” he murmured. “Always comforting me, taking care of me. I don’t give you half as much as you deserve.”

“Simon,” you began, but he silenced you with a kiss.

It was slow, tender, and deliberate, leaving you breathless by the time he pulled away. His hand slid down your body, tracing over your waist and hip as he pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

Your eyes widened slightly, your heart skipping a beat as his meaning became clear. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, his lips trailing down your jaw. “Let me.”

The intensity in his eyes left no room for argument, and you nodded, your breath hitching as he shifted lower on the bed.

Simon took his time, his hands moving with a mix of reverence and purpose as he pulled your clothes away, exposing your skin to his gaze. He pressed kisses to your thighs, his stubble scraping lightly against your sensitive skin, drawing a shiver from you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice full of awe. “You know that, don’t you?”

Your cheeks flushed, and you let out a soft laugh. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smirked, the rare expression making your heart flutter, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he lowered himself further, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your laughter dissolved into a quiet gasp as he kissed his way closer, his hands gripping your hips to keep you steady.

When his mouth finally found you, it was as if the world stopped. Simon was slow and deliberate, his tongue and lips working with a skill that left you breathless. He paid attention to every sound you made, every shiver and twitch, adjusting his movements to bring you closer to the edge.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as he pulled you apart piece by piece. “Simon,” you moaned, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

He groaned against you at the sound, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through your body. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you steady as he pushed you higher and higher until you couldn’t take it anymore.

Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your back arching as a strangled cry escaped your lips. Simon didn’t stop, drawing out every last bit of your pleasure before finally pulling back.

When he looked up at you, his lips glistening, his dark eyes filled with a mix of pride and affection, you couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly. “You’re… something else, Simon Riley.”

He smirked, crawling back up to lay beside you, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you close. “Just making sure my girl knows how much she means to me.”

You cupped his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek as you kissed him softly. “I already know. But I wouldn’t mind you reminding me like that every now and then.”

He chuckled, his breath warm against your lips. “Anything for you, love. Anything.”

You smiled, resting your head against his chest as his arms tightened around you. In his embrace, you felt safe, cherished, and utterly loved—a feeling you knew Simon would always give you, in his own quiet, devoted way.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Aftermath

It had been a long day.

The 141 Task Force had been in the gym for hours, pushing through rounds of training, building up their stamina for the missions ahead. The usual banter was going on in the background, but Simon couldn’t focus on any of it. His mind kept drifting back to last night—the taste of you, the way you had come undone beneath his touch.

He was trying to keep it together, but the image of you trembling, your fingers tangled in his hair, and your moans echoing in his ears were all-consuming. God, you had felt so good. Every inch of you had sent him spiraling deeper, and he couldn’t shake the memory of it. Your scent, your taste—it had haunted him all morning, and now, in the middle of a training session, it was driving him crazy.

His muscles were tight from the sparring, but the real tension was elsewhere. His pants were uncomfortably tight, his body betraying him as he tried to force himself to focus on the drills.

Focus, Riley. Focus…

But it was no use. His mind kept wandering back to you, to the way you had felt in his arms, to the way you had called his name. The sound of your breath, the feel of your body against his—it was all he could think about.

"Oi, Ghost, you good?" Soap's voice cut through his thoughts.

Simon gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he turned toward Soap. "Fine. Just tired," he lied, his voice thick with tension.

Soap eyed him suspiciously but didn't press it, continuing with his exercises. But Simon's mind was elsewhere. He needed relief.

His breathing became shallow as his thoughts spiraled again. Focus on the mission. Focus on the team. But nothing was working.

His gaze flickered over to where you were sparring with Gaz, your movements graceful and precise. You looked so damn good, and it only made his situation worse. The thought of you, of last night, had him hot and bothered in a way that was beyond his control.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed a break. A cold one.

Without a word, Simon stalked off toward the locker room, his pace quickening as he got closer to the showers. He couldn’t think straight anymore. His body was betraying him, and he knew there was only one thing that could cool him off.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of the cold water hitting his skin was a relief as Simon stepped under the stream, closing his eyes for a moment to let the chill settle into his muscles. But even the cold water couldn’t help him shake the image of you.

You.

His hand gripped the shower wall, his teeth gritting as the memories flooded back—your taste, the way your body had shuddered against his. How had he never felt anything so intense before?

He growled, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles. This is ridiculous.

The water ran over him, but he could still feel the heat from his thoughts, and it was making him insane. He had never felt this way about anyone, never so consumed by desire. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.

And yet… when he thought about you, when he thought about being with you, about the way you made him feel… he couldn’t help but want more.

The sound of your laugh echoed in his mind, the way your hands had held him close, the way you had whispered his name with such sweetness and trust.

Focus, Riley. Get your shit together.

But the truth was, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get it together anymore.

He leaned his head back, letting the cold water hit his face. All he could think about was you. And right now, that was all he needed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Promise in the Shadows

You noticed Simon’s absence the moment the sparring session ended. While the others laughed and exchanged quips, his brooding presence was nowhere to be found. Soap had mentioned Simon “seemed off,” but no one else seemed concerned.

Except you.

The thought of him slipping away in that quiet, stoic way of his tugged at you. You knew him better than anyone here—better than he probably wanted you to. He wasn’t just blowing off steam; something was bothering him.

“Hey, guys, I’ll catch up later,” you said with a casual wave, earning a curious look from Price but no protests.

The locker room was quiet when you stepped in, the sound of a running shower guiding you toward him. You paused outside, listening, your heart aching slightly at the low groan that slipped through the noise.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was going on. Simon had been different all morning—distracted, tense. And you could hazard a guess as to why.

Slipping inside, you moved quietly toward the shower stalls. Steam clouded the room, and the closer you got, the more your chest tightened. You peeked around the corner, and there he was—Simon, his broad shoulders hunched under the icy spray, one hand braced against the tile wall. His head was bowed, his body taut with tension.

“Simon,” you called softly, stepping closer.

He froze, his head whipping around. His dark eyes locked onto yours, and you could see the heat lingering there, barely contained.

“What are you doing here?” he rasped, his voice strained.

You took another step forward, your hands clasped in front of you, your gaze soft. “I noticed you were gone,” you said simply. “Wanted to check on you.”

His jaw clenched, his gaze flickering away. “I’m fine.”

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you, though?”

The faint pink coloring his ears told you everything you needed to know. He was embarrassed, vulnerable in a way he hated, and it broke your heart just a little.

“You don’t have to deal with this alone,” you said gently, stepping closer.

“(Y/N),” he warned, his voice low and gravelly.

But you didn’t stop. You reached out, placing a hand on his forearm, and he flinched slightly before relaxing under your touch.

“You’re my man,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “Whatever you’re going through, I’m here for you. Always.”

His eyes met yours, conflicted and raw. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the water.

“I do,” you countered, your other hand moving to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch despite himself, his eyes closing for a moment.

You pressed a kiss to his chest, your lips brushing against the scarred skin. “Let me take care of you, Simon.”

His breath hitched, and when he opened his eyes, they were filled with something between desperation and adoration. He didn’t say a word as you gently nudged him back against the wall, the water cascading over both of you.

Lowering yourself to your knees, you held his gaze, your hands trailing down his sides. He was already hard, straining against the fabric of his wet boxers that he hadn't taken off on purpose... fighting his desires, and you could see the way his breath quickened as you touched him.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you interrupted, your voice firm yet full of affection.

Sliding his boxers down, you freed him, your hands moving with care and reverence. He was already trembling slightly, and the vulnerability in his eyes only made you more determined to show him how much you loved him.

You leaned forward, your lips brushing against his tip, and he let out a ragged gasp, his hand moving to tangle in your hair. His restraint was admirable, but you didn’t want him to hold back.

As you took him into your mouth, his low groan echoed through the shower, his fingers tightening in your hair. You moved slowly, savoring the way he responded to you, the way his body trembled under your touch.

“God, (Y/N),” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes soft. “You don’t have to hold back with me, Simon. I’m yours. Always.”

His chest heaved, his hand moving to cup your cheek as his other stayed buried in your hair. “Mine,” he repeated, his voice almost a growl.

You smiled, your lips brushing against him before you continued, your pace steady and deliberate. He was unraveling, his breaths coming in short gasps as he tried to hold himself together.

When he finally came undone, his release was accompanied by a deep, guttural moan, his body trembling as he braced himself against the wall. You stayed with him through it, your hands steadying him, your touch full of love and care.

As he sank to his knees in front of you, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, his voice soft and full of gratitude.

“I wanted to,” you replied, your fingers brushing through his damp hair. “You’re everything to me, Simon. I’ll always take care of you.”

He kissed you then, his lips slow and tender against yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

“You deserve everything,” you said firmly, your hands cradling his face.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as the water poured over both of you. In that moment, there were no shadows, no walls—just the two of you, completely and utterly in love.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Completely Yours

Simon held you tightly, his head buried in the crook of your neck as the steam from the shower enveloped you both. His breathing was still uneven, his body trembling slightly as he came down from the high you had just given him. You ran your fingers gently through his damp hair, placing soft kisses along his temple, whispering reassurances that only made his chest tighten further with emotion.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky to have you, and yet, every time he thought about it, he couldn’t stop the overwhelming need to show you how much you meant to him.

Especially now.

Because even as the warmth of your love settled in his chest, his mind was betraying him—images of last night flooding back with vivid clarity. The way you had writhed beneath him, the taste of you on his tongue, the way your body had arched as you fell apart under his relentless attention. God, he could still feel the way your thighs had quivered around his head, the sweet sounds you’d made as you begged him for more.

And now, you were here. Warm, soft, and all his.

His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your neck as his voice came out rough and low. “(Y/N)…”

You hummed softly, tilting your head to press a kiss to his cheek. “Yes, Simon?”

His lips found your skin again, pressing lingering kisses along your jawline, each one filled with an intensity that made your heart race. “Need you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers stilled in his hair as you pulled back slightly to look at him, your eyes searching his. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze filled with both vulnerability and a raw, unrelenting desire.

“Simon…” you started, your voice soft and full of affection.

But he didn’t let you finish. His lips captured yours in a deep, searing kiss that left you breathless, his hands roaming over your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. The water cascading over you both only added to the heat building between you, and when his lips left yours to trail down your neck, you couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped you.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your skin, his voice thick with possession.

“Always,” you breathed, your hands gripping his shoulders as he shifted you against the tiled wall, his large frame towering over you.

His lips found your collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before his mouth moved lower. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips as he knelt before you, his dark eyes looking up at you with an intensity that sent a shiver through you.

“Simon, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, echoing your words from earlier. “You’re mine, and I need to taste you again. Now.”

Your breath hitched as his hands gently guided your legs over his shoulders, his lips pressing kisses along the inside of your thighs that had you trembling. His eyes never left yours, even as his mouth descended on you, drawing a gasp from your lips that quickly turned into a moan.

“God, you’re perfect,” he muttered against you, his voice muffled but no less reverent.

The moment his tongue flicked against you, all coherent thoughts left your mind. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping it tightly as he worked you over with a skill and fervor that left you breathless. He was relentless, his lips and tongue worshiping you, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady as you writhed beneath his touch.

“Simon—” you gasped, your voice trembling as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”

Your cries echoed off the tiled walls, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra as he took you apart piece by piece. And when you finally came undone, your body shaking with the force of it, he held you through it, his tongue and lips coaxing every last wave of pleasure from you.

When you finally opened your eyes, your breathing ragged, you found him staring up at you, his lips glistening and a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmured, his voice rough and filled with adoration.

Your cheeks flushed, and you couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly, pulling him up to kiss him deeply. The taste of yourself on his lips only fueled the fire between you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, your fingers brushing through his damp hair.

His arms tightened around you, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you too,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re mine, (Y/N). Always.”

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your lips curling into a soft smile. “Whenever you want me, Simon, I’m yours. Always.”

The look in his eyes was pure devotion, and as he kissed you again, you knew there was no place you’d rather be than in the arms of the man who loved you so fiercely.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Addictive Perfection

Simon Riley, the Ghost, had faced countless enemies, weathered impossible missions, and endured more than most men could fathom. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the way you utterly unraveled him.

It wasn’t just the way you looked at him with those eyes that saw right through his walls, or the soft smiles you reserved just for him. It wasn’t even the way your body felt against his, or how you melted under his touch. No, it was everything.

You were his perfect storm.

And the addiction? That was a whole other beast.

It had started as a way to focus on you, to make you feel as worshiped as he believed you deserved. But somewhere along the line, Simon had realized he was the one who couldn’t get enough. The taste of you lingered on his tongue like a haunting melody, the way you trembled under his hands etched into his memory like scripture. He’d think about the breathless way you said his name, the way your thighs squeezed him, the soft pleas falling from your lips, and he’d lose himself.

Even now, as you sat curled up on his lap in the common area, innocently running your fingers over his chest and chatting with Soap, Simon was struggling.

Your scent was still faintly on him—evidence of the indulgence that had happened not even two hours ago. He’d dragged you into the locker room after training under the pretense of “needing a word,” only to fall to his knees before you, murmuring praises against your skin as he drove you wild.

And here you were, like nothing had happened, laughing softly at Soap’s antics, while Simon could only think about taking you back to his room and doing it all over again.

Soap’s voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.

“Ghost, you’ve been quiet. Everything alright, mate?”

Simon cleared his throat, his arm tightening subtly around your waist as he gave Soap a curt nod. “Fine. Just listening.”

Soap grinned, nudging your shoulder playfully. “Must be you. You’ve tamed the big bad Ghost, lass. Never seen him this relaxed.”

You giggled, the sound like music to Simon’s ears, and leaned back into him. “I’m just lucky, I guess.”

Simon ducked his head to hide the smirk tugging at his lips, his fingers trailing along your side possessively. Lucky didn’t even begin to cover it.

Later that evening, when the base was quiet and the team had retired for the night, Simon finally had you to himself.

You were in his room, wearing one of his shirts, the hem brushing your thighs as you moved around. His eyes followed your every step, the way the fabric clung to your curves, the teasing glimpse of skin that sent his thoughts spiraling.

“Simon?”

Your voice broke through his haze, and he realized you were standing in front of him, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“You alright?” you asked softly, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek.

He didn’t answer right away, instead leaning into your touch, his eyes closing as he took a steadying breath.

“I’m fine,” he murmured, though the hoarseness of his voice betrayed him.

“Are you sure?”

His eyes opened, meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Slowly, he stood, towering over you as his hands settled on your hips.

“I need you,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Now.”

Your lips parted, a soft blush creeping across your cheeks, but you didn’t hesitate. Your hands slid up his chest, curling around his neck as you pressed yourself against him.

“I’m yours, Simon,” you whispered, your voice trembling with affection. “Always.”

By the time he had you on the bed, spread out beneath him, Simon was entirely undone. His lips trailed down your body, his hands worshiping every inch of you as he worked his way lower.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

You giggled softly, your hands tangling in his hair. “Good.”

His breath hitched at your teasing tone, and he looked up at you with a smirk that sent shivers down your spine. “Careful, love. You might regret that.”

But the only thing you regretted was the loss of your breath as his lips and tongue made contact, his hands gripping your thighs as he devoured you with a hunger that left you trembling.

Simon wasn’t just passionate—he was thorough, determined, and utterly dedicated to making you feel as perfect as he believed you were. Every sound you made, every arch of your body, only spurred him on, and by the time he finally pulled away, you were a trembling, breathless mess.

As he kissed his way back up your body, his eyes met yours, filled with a raw intensity that made your heart race.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped his face, pulling him down into a soft, lingering kiss. “You don’t have to. I’m yours, Simon. Always.”

His lips curved into a rare smile, and as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close, he knew without a doubt that you were the best thing to ever happen to him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Love Through the Night

The moment Simon joined with you, it was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist. There were no missions, no burdens of the past, no shadows creeping at the edges of his mind—only you. You, who met him with such tenderness and love, grounding him in a way he never thought possible.

His movements were slow, deliberate, savoring every second. The way your body molded to his, the way your soft gasps and whispered praises filled the room, sent him spiraling faster than he wanted to admit.

“God, love…” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with emotion. “You… you’re too much.”

“Then don’t hold back, Simon,” you whispered, cupping his face as you kissed him deeply. “I love you. All of you.”

Those words undid him completely.

Simon didn’t last long—he rarely did when it came to you. The intensity of his feelings, combined with the sheer perfection of being with you, overwhelmed him every time. But even as he came undone, his mind was already racing, determined to make up for it.

And he did.

Before you could even catch your breath, he was moving, his lips trailing kisses across your skin, his hands exploring your body with reverence.

“Again,” he rasped, his voice laced with desperation as he looked up at you, his dark eyes filled with adoration. “Need you again.”

You giggled softly, your fingers threading through his hair as you nodded. “I’m yours, Simon. Always.”

What followed was a night neither of you would forget.

Every touch, every kiss, every whispered declaration of love was etched into your souls. Simon couldn’t get enough of you—your taste, your scent, the way you responded to him like he was the only thing that mattered.

And you… you were more than happy to meet his fervor.

There was no rush, no urgency—just the two of you, lost in each other. Simon made love to you like a man starved, each round more intense and passionate than the last. His stamina surprised even him, driven by the overwhelming need to worship every inch of you, to show you just how much you meant to him.

By the time the early hours of the morning crept in, both of you were exhausted, tangled together in the sheets. Your head rested on his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his skin as his arm held you close, his hand stroking your hair.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Simon muttered, his voice thick with affection as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You smiled, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He chuckled softly, his rare smile lighting up his face. “Never. You’re everything to me.”

“And you’re everything to me,” you replied, leaning up to kiss him gently.

As the two of you drifted off to sleep, still wrapped up in each other, Simon couldn’t help but think about how lucky he was. You were his anchor, his light in the darkness, and he would spend every day of his life proving just how much he loved you.

Before Donovan could even process her voice, Eve lunged. She tackled him with brutal precision, her momentum driving his massive frame hard into the floorboards. The impact cracked through the room.

"Bloody hell!" Soap blurted out, dropping his guard in sheer shock.

On the floor, Eve was entirely unhinged, fueled by absolute rage. She mounted Donovan, her fists raining down with lethal efficiency and devastating technique. Left, right, shattering blows that gave him no room to breathe. The junior operative who had been talking to him backed away, his face pale with terror. Donovan couldn't even counter; all he could do was cross his forearms over his face, desperately trying to shield himself from the onslaught.

Ghost was already moving. He vaulted over the ropes, Soap right on his heels.

In a split second, Ghost reached the fray. He didn't waste time trying to reason with her. He dug his massive hands under her arms, wrapping his thick forearms around her waist, and violently wrenched her off Donovan's bleeding form. Soap immediately stepped in, grabbing a groaning, disoriented Donovan by the shirt to haul him to his feet.

"Let me go! Get off me!" Eve screamed, thrashing violently against Ghost's iron grip. Her boots kicked at the air, her face flushed and twisted with rage as she glared at Donovan. "Because of you, she's unconscious!! You son of a bitch!! Narcissistic motherfucker!"

Ghost only tightened his hold, binding her arms to her sides. She was strong, fighting with the feral desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose, but against his sheer bulk, she couldn't break free. Recognizing the crowd gathering around them, Ghost didn't say a word. He dragged her out of the gym, kicking the doors open and hauling her down the corridor into a nearby empty briefing office, shutting out the staring eyes of the base.

"Let me go! You fuckin’ asshole!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with raw emotion.

Ghost practically dropped her onto her feet and slammed the heavy metal door shut. He immediately stepped into her path, placing his massive frame squarely between her and the exit.

Eve lunged forward, trying to push past him to get back to the door, her hands slamming against his chest. "This is none of your fuckin’ business, Riley!"

Ghost didn't move an inch. He stood like a monolith, watching her through the dark slits of his balaclava. Eve was hyperventilating, her shoulders heaving, her green eyes wide and wild, swimming with a dangerous cocktail of fury, grief, and unexpressed trauma.

Before she could strike him again, Ghost reached out. His large hands clamped around her wrists, locking them tight. His thumbs brushed against the backs of her hands, catching the raw, split skin where her knuckles were already bruising and weeping blood from the devastating blows she had rained down on Donovan. He didn't squeeze to hurt, but to anchor her. He forced her to look at him, holding her steady, his gaze demanding that she come back to reality.

For a long, agonizing second, Eve fought the restraint. But as her eyes locked into his, something inside her finally snapped. The fury drained out of her all at once, leaving only a hollow, crushing despair. She stopped struggling. Her hands went limp in his grip for a fraction of a second before she suddenly, violently wrenched them free from his hold, stumbling backward as she blindly sought distance.

Her back hit the cold, solid wall of the office, and the impact seemed to shatter the last of her remaining strength. Her knees buckled. She slid heavily down the wall onto the floor, pulling her knees against her chest as she buried her face in her bloodied hands, her shoulders shaking violently as a deep, desperate sobs tore from her throat.

Ghost stood over her, motionless. Inside his chest, something shifted—a cold, rusted lock turning for the first time in years. He hadn't felt an ache like this in a lifetime. It was that same unyielding, magnetic pull that had quietly reeled him toward her since the very day he met her—a persistent, inescapable gravity he had spent months trying to ignore. Eve’s raw intensity, her fierce loyalty, and the sheer magnitude of her grief broke through his walls, awakening a profound sense of admiration and empathy he thought he had buried forever.

Incapable of leaving her alone in the dark, Ghost slowly dropped to his knees. He slid his back down the wall, sitting right beside her on the floor.

Without lifting her head, her fingers still clutching her face and tangled in her hair, Eve choked out the words through her tears. "She's... she's fuckin’ comatose..."

She pressed her palms into her eyes, breaking down completely.

Ghost looked at her. Then, in a silent gesture that betrayed everything about his cold, detached persona, he reached out. He slung his heavy, solid arm over her trembling shoulders and pulled her firmly against his side, offering his massive frame as a shield against the rest of the world.

******************

The fallout was swift, clinical, and utterly unyielding. By 0600 the following morning, Morgan Eve Thorne had been officially handed a mandatory two-week suspension, cited for severe emotional instability and conduct unbecoming of an operative. Her access badges were temporarily deactivated, and she was ordered off the active rotation. The base felt noticeably emptier without her sharp, lethal presence, but inside the briefing rooms, the tension she left behind was still thick enough to cut with a knife.

Ghost stood in the shadow of the hangar corridor, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the double doors of the medical wing. He knew why she had snapped; he had read the mission files. But knowing the reason didn't change the simmering, dark venom pooling in his own chest every time he pictured her breaking down on that office floor.

The heavy doors groaned open, and Michael Donovan walked out.

The SRR Lieutenant looked like hell. His left eye was swollen shut, a nasty, deep purple bruise mapped across his cheekbone, and his split lip was held together by neat black stitches—all courtesy of Eve’s precision.

Ghost didn't make a sound as he pushed off the wall. He simply adjusted his stride, cutting across the corridor like a predator closing a trap, effortlessly intercepting Donovan before the man could reach the main courtyard.

Donovan stopped dead in his tracks, his one good eye widening slightly as the towering, masked silhouette of the Task Force 141 commander blocked his path. The air between them instantly turned freezing cold.

"Riley," Donovan muttered, his voice raspy, trying to maintain his usual arrogant posture despite the visible limp. He let out a bitter, dry chuckle, adjusting the ice pack against his side. "I didn't get a chance to thank you yesterday. Cheers for pulling that fucking psycho off me. Out of her mind, that one. Command finally put the bitch on ice for two weeks. Frankly, she’s lucky she isn't facing a court-martial."

Ghost stepped closer, crowding Donovan’s space until his massive frame forced the man back against the concrete wall. The sheer, suffocating weight of Ghost's presence made the junior operatives at the end of the hall turn around and walk the other way. Nobody wanted to be a witness to whatever was about to happen.

"I didn't pull her off to save you" Ghost said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that rattled right through the metal fixtures of the corridor. "I did it so she wouldn't have to waste her career on a piece of shit like you."

Donovan’s jaw clenched, his pride flaring up despite the fear bleeding into his expression. "She attacked a fellow SRR officer over a mission casualty. Safehouses get compromised, Riley. It’s part of the job. She’s too compromised to see straight."

"She saw perfectly straight," Ghost growled, leaning in until the cold fabric of his skull mask was inches from his bruised face. He reached out, his heavy hand flat against the wall right next to Donovan's head, pinning him in place. "You left her asset behind to cover your own tracks. You ran to the extraction point because you couldn't handle the heat, and now one of your own is rotting in a medical bed with wires keeping her heart beating”.

"You can't prove—"

"I don't need to prove a goddamn thing," Ghost cut him off, his voice dead, flat, and absolute. "Command might look at logistics, but I look at the dirt. You’re a narcissistic piece of shit who cares more about his record than the bodies he steps on to keep it clean."

Ghost lowered his hand, his fingers curling into a tight, heavy fist against his thigh. The urge to finish what Eve had started was a physical ache in his knuckles, but he kept his composure locked behind a wall of pure iron.

"She has two weeks off base," Ghost whispered, the threat hanging in the air like a loaded weapon. "Two weeks where she’s not allowed to touch you. But I’m still on active duty, Lieutenant. If I see you in the gym, if I see you in the mess hall, or if I hear your voice anywhere near her file again... I won't be the one pulling anyone apart. Do we understand each other?"

Donovan swallowed hard, his skin turning a sickly shade of pale beneath his bruises. He nodded once, a rigid, terrified jerk of his chin.

Ghost stared at him for one more agonizing second, letting the silence break whatever was left of the man's bravado. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, his heavy boots echoing off the concrete.

****************************

The local off-base pub was loud, thick with the smell of stale ale, cigarette smoke, and the rowdy chatter of off-duty soldiers. Task Force 141 filed in, moving automatically toward their usual large booth in the back. Price, Soap, and Gaz were already ordering a round, laughing about some misfire during the afternoon drills, but Ghost wasn't listening. His eyes were already scanning the room, cutting through the dim, amber haze of the pub.

He found her instantly.

Eve was shoved into a dark booth at the absolute far corner of the bar, completely isolated from the noise. She looked like a ghost inhabiting a living room. Her face was hollow, pale, with dark, bruised circles carved beneath her eyes—the unmistakable look of someone who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. On her table sat a single glass and a bottle of Jameson. The bottle was already half empty.

Fifteen minutes passed. Ghost sat with his team in silent, not touching his drink. While Soap told another loud story, Ghost slid out of the booth without a word. He walked across the floorboards, his heavy frame cutting through the crowd until he reached the edge of her shadow.

He didn't ask for permission. He simply pulled out the wooden chair opposite her and sat down.

Eve didn't flinch. Her green eyes remained fixed on the scratched wood of the table, lost in some dark, distant memory. Then, she inhaled deeply, a long, shaky breath as if violently forcing herself back into reality, and finally looked up to lock eyes with him.

After a few seconds, she lowered her gaze, her trembling but practiced fingers wrapping around the glass to take a burning gulp of the whiskey.

"You shouldn't hide behind that mask, Riley," she muttered, her voice raspy, dry, and devoid of life.

Ghost stared back through the dark slits of his balaclava, his posture rigid. "You shouldn't be hiding in whiskey, Thorne."

Eve let out a harsh, bitter, humorless laugh that died instantly in her throat. She leaned forward, the raw, self-destructive edge in her eyes flashing dangerously. "I've nearly died so many fuckin’ times that I don't give a shit what happens to me now."

Ghost felt a sudden, sharp tightening in his chest. It was a cold, familiar pang—the echo of a man who had walked that exact same ledge, who knew the terrifying freedom of having absolutely nothing left to lose. He didn't speak, letting the weight of his silence acknowledge her pain.

Eve looked down at her glass, her thumb tracing the rim as her voice cracked slightly. "The medics said Maggie's stable... for now. They think she might start waking up from the coma in two weeks… But looking at her through that glass, with all those fuckin’ tubes..."

Ghost leaned in, his voice dropping into a low, commanding rumble. "What you did to Donovan... you crossed a line, Morgan. An assault on a fellow officer can ruin you. Command will destroy your career before—"

"Are you fuckin’ justifying him?!" Eve interrupted sharply. Her head snapped up, her green eyes burning with a sudden, venomous rage as she glared at him with pure, unadulterated disdain. She leaned across the sticky table, her face inches from his mask, her whisper lethal. "He left her behind to rot. He left my asset, my friend, to bleed out in the dirt just to save his own pathetic skin. Don't you dare preach to me about protocol, Riley."

Ghost didn't blink. He didn't move back an inch from her fury, matching her intensity with a cold, unyielding stare that locked her in place.

"I know that, Morgan" Ghost said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly whisper that carried the terrifying weight of absolute truth. "I know exactly what he did. And the only reason I didn't let you kill him... was because I want to keep seeing your face on that base."

The honesty of Ghost’s words struck Eve like a physical blow. The venom in her eyes flickered, dying out completely as she stared straight into his, caught entirely off guard. For a long, suffocating beat, neither of them broke eye contact, locking their gazes in a silent, unyielding clash. The raw, heavy silence between them hung thick in the air, completely overriding the chaotic noise of the pub.

Finally breaking eye contact, Eve abruptly looked down and grabbed her glass, throwing the remaining whiskey back to drain it in one sharp, burning gulp. She slammed the empty glass onto the wood, pushed her chair back, and stood up to leave.

But the alcohol hit her fast. The moment she stood, the room tilted, and she stumbled, her boots dragging as her drunken state became instantly obvious.

Ghost leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracking her every movement with sharp precision. "You can't drive like that, Thorne."

Eve stopped. She planted one hand flat on the sticky table for leverage and shoved the other against her hip, glaring down at him through a hazy, defiant fog. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."

Ghost let out a low, gravelly snort, shaking his head. He stood up, his massive, towering frame instantly eclipsing her and throwing her into his shadow. He leaned in slightly, his gaze dark and intense. Eve didn't back down, tilting her chin up to return the stare with stubborn pride.

"Let's go," Ghost grumbled.

Before she could protest, his heavy, hand clamped firmly around her upper arm. He didn't pull her brutally, but his grip was absolute iron, guiding her through the crowded pub and out into the cold night air.

He practically poured her into the passenger seat of his SUV. The drive to her off-base apartment was dead silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the quiet rhythm of her breathing. When he killed the ignition, he walked around to her side, opened the door, and hauled her out.

Eve immediately slumped against him, her shoulder buried in his massive chest as they walked into the building. The sheer contrast of her weight against his—the soft, warm reality of her leaning entirely on his strength—sent a quiet, unfamiliar ache rippling through Ghost's chest.

"You know..." Eve mumbled, her voice thick, her head rolling slightly against his shoulder as they walked down the hallway. "Everyone back at the base is absolutely terrified of you." She let out a soft, lazy chuckle, looking up at his masked face with blurry eyes. "If they only knew what a fuckin’ sweetheart the Ghost is..."

Ghost didn't say a word. But beneath his mask a rare, quiet warmth spread deep in his veins. He just silently relished the heavy, unfiltered weight of her body against his, memorizing the scent of whiskey and rain on her skin.

He unlocked her apartment door and guided her inside. Seeing her stagger, he slid one massive arm behind her knees and the other behind her back, effortlessly lifting her into his arms.

Eve gasped softly at the sudden loss of gravity, her hands instinctively clutching his jacket for balance. As he carried her down the short hallway toward her bedroom, she looked up at him, a sleepy, mischievous smirk playing on her lips. "You should at least buy me a drink before you take me to bed, Riley."

Ghost’s chest rumbled with a silent, heavy breath, but he kept his composure locked down. He walked into her dim bedroom and carefully lowered her onto the mattress. The moment her back hit the sheets, Eve let out a soft sigh, immediately curling onto her side and closing her eyes as the exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally claimed her.

Ghost knelt at the edge of the bed, his large hands moving deliberately as he unlaced her heavy combat boots, slipping them off one by one and setting them neatly on the floor.

Feeling the movement, Eve cracked her green eyes open, staring at him through the shadows. Her voice dropped into a soft, vulnerable whisper. "When am I going to see your fuckin’ face, Riley?"

Ghost paused, a boot still in his hand. He slowly leaned over her, his massive silhouette hovering close, his dark eyes locking onto hers in the quiet room.

"When you're not fuckin’ drunk, Thorne," he whispered back, his voice thick and rough.

Eve’s lips curled into a genuine, sleepy smile. "Fuck you, Simon..." she murmured, her eyelids fluttering shut as she drifted completely into sleep.

Ghost slowly straightened up. He stood by the bed, a silent monolith in the dark room, his eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The fierce, terrifying urge to protect her, to crawl into the space beside her just to feel her warmth, gripped him so tightly it made his knuckles ache. For the first time in years, the ghost felt entirely alive, rooted to the spot by the desperate, quiet necessity of simply being near her.

****************

Exactly fifteen days had passed since the night in the pub.

Ghost pulled his Land Cruiser into the gravel lot of Hereford, the engine cutting out with a heavy, mechanical thud. He stepped out of the vehicle with a surge of brutal, kinetic energy, his shoulders set and his presence instantly dominating the space around him. He didn’t hurry, but his stride was heavy with purpose.

He was just about to gear up and head toward the main entrance when, a few meters away, the rhythmic, high-pitched scream of a high-performance engine cut through the morning stillness. A sleek, black Ducati Panigale carved into the lot with surgical precision, the back tire kicking up loose gravel as it slid into a parking spot just a short distance from him.

Ghost didn't need to look at the plates to know exactly who it was. The moment the bike idled down, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiled deep inside his chest. It was her. Her two-week suspension was officially over.

Eve killed the ignition, the sudden silence of the lot stretching between them. With deliberate, practiced movements, she began tugging off her riding gloves, one by one, before reaching up to unlatch her helmet. She pulled it off, her vibrant red hair tumbling loose as she took a deep breath of the crisp morning air.

As she dismounted the bike, she efficiently stowed her gear away and pulled a pair of dark aviator sunglasses from her pocket, slipping them over her eyes. Ghost stood completely motionless by his truck, watching her every single move, his gaze locked onto her through the dark slits of his mask.

Eve turned as if to head straight toward the base, but she paused. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head back toward him.

For a few long, breathless seconds, their gazes locked across the gravel lot. Even behind the dark tint of her aviators, the connection was instant, heavy with the unsaid memories of the apartment and the name she had whispered before falling asleep.

Then, a tiny, subtle smirk played at the corner of her lips.

Before he could even react, she turned back around and continued her steady march toward the base entrance, her boots clicking sharply against the ground.

Ghost remained rooted to the spot, a motionless figure in the empty lot, completely still as he forced himself to process the sudden, distinct acceleration of his own heartbeat.

*************

The quiet hum of the heart monitor was the only sound slicing through the sterile air of the medical wing. Morgan pushed the heavy door open, her boots clicking softly against the linoleum.

Margaret Rochester was propped up against the pillows, her face pale, the dark circles under her eyes stark against her skin. Her gaze was drifted toward the window, hollow and lost, but the exact moment Morgan’s vibrant red hair caught the harsh fluorescent lights, Maggie’s eyes flickered. A frail spark of recognition returned to them.

Morgan didn't hesitate. She crossed the room and sank into the plastic chair by the bedside. She reached out, her hands—bearing the faint, fresh pink scars of the knuckles she had split fifteen days ago—gently taking Maggie’s weak, trembling hand, which was weighed down by thick tape and IV lines.

"Hey," Morgan whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Maggie’s throat clicked as she swallowed hard. Her breathing was shallow, her voice a fragile, raspy shadow of its former self, breaking with exhaustion. "Eve..." She blinked slowly, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to tighten her frail grip. "The safehouse… I’m sorry. I couldn't..."

A violent, suffocating wave of pure fury surged in Morgan’s chest at the reminder of what happened. She could feel the venom burning in her veins, but looking at her best friend's broken frame, she forced every ounce of it down, burying the rage deep below a mask of absolute reassurance.

"Don't," Morgan cut her off gently, leaning in. "Quiet, you're safe. I took care of it."

Maggie let out a weak, breathy huff—a pathetic attempt at a laugh that cracked painfully in her throat. She paused, drawing in a shaky breath, her words coming out haltingly as she tilted her head slightly toward the door. "When I first woke up..." She swallowed, her voice dropping to a strained whisper. "...thought I was in hell... huge fuckin' skull... hovering over me."

Morgan’s lips twitched into a bittersweet smile, squeezing her hand. "Don't worry about him. Just rest."

Through the thick glass window of the room, completely unnoticed, Ghost stood motionless in the dim corridor. His massive arms were crossed over his chest, his dark eyes locked onto Morgan through his mask. He watched her intently, analyzing her every movement, witnessing how the fiercely lethal Lieutenant Thorne handled the crushing weight of reality.

Morgan stayed for a few more minutes until Maggie’s heavy eyelids drifted shut again. Stepping away, Morgan walked out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.

The moment she was out, the professional armor cracked. She slumped slightly, a shuddering breath escaping her lips, her green eyes swimming with a raw cocktail of grief and exhaustion. But she forced herself to stand tall, refusing to break. She looked across the narrow hallway.

Ghost was leaning against the opposite wall, a towering, stationary shadow.

Morgan marched straight toward him, stopping just inches away. Her voice was steady, but carried a dangerous undercurrent. "Were you here when she woke up?"

He simply gave her a slow, absolute nod of his head.

Morgan quickly diverted her gaze down the long corridor, her jaw clenching as she fought back the threat of tears, unwilling to let him see her shatter.

Suddenly, the heavy door of an office down the hall clicked open. Michael Donovan walked out, holding a clipboard. The moment his eyes landed on Eve and Ghost standing together, his entire posture stiffened. Pure, unadulterated panic flashed across his bruised face, his skin turning a sickly shade of white.

Morgan’s head snapped toward him. The sorrow vanished, replaced instantly by a lethal, venomous rage. Her muscles coiled, and she took a sharp, aggressive step forward.

But Ghost was already moving. With terrifyingly fast, fluid kinetic energy, he stepped directly into her personal space, completely blocking her path and clamping his heavy, iron hand firmly around her upper arm, anchoring her to the floor.

"Stand down, Lieutenant. You're smarter than this.” Ghost muttered, his gravelly baritone vibrating through the narrow hall.

Her green eyes remained locked on Donovan like a predator tracking prey through a cage. Down the hall, Donovan didn't waste a single second; he practically scrambled backward, turning on his heel and retreating through the courtyard doors to get as far away from them as possible.

Morgan stood rigid for a long beat, her chest heaving. Only when the doors slammed shut behind Donovan did the violent tension drain from her frame. She relaxed her arm, and Ghost slowly released his grip—but he didn't back away.

He stayed right there, invading her space. They were standing so close that their chests subtly brushed against each other with every breath they took. The heat between them was staggering.

Eve tilted her chin up, looking straight into the dark slits of his mask, her eyes burning with a stubborn, fierce intensity.

"One day, you won't be able to hold me back, Riley," she whispered, the threat lethal and deeply intimate.

Without waiting for a response, she took a slow step backward, her gaze never breaking from his. Then, she smoothly turned on her heel and began her steady march down the opposite end of the corridor.

Ghost remained rooted to the spot, his arms falling back to his sides. He watched her go, completely spellbound—utterly captivated and lost in thought by the sheer magnitude of her words.

*******************

The fluorescent lights of the main briefing room hummed with a clinical, uncomfortable buzz. General Smith sat at the head of the long oak table, flanked by Captain Price. The atmosphere was thick, charged with the lingering political fallout of the compromised safehouse. Lieutenant Donovan was absent, buried somewhere in a pile of disciplinary inquiries, but Morgan Thorne sat rigid in her chair, the perfect picture of an SRR specialist.

Directly across from her sat Ghost.

Morgan was the one delivering the after-action review. Her presentation was flawless, delivered with an unyielding, icy professionalism that left no room for debate. She mapped out the coordinates, the tactical failures of the SRR extraction team, and the timeline of Margaret Rochester’s abandonment with surgical precision. She didn’t falter. She didn’t let her voice shake. She proved to everyone in that room exactly why she wore her stripes.

Throughout the entire briefing, Ghost didn’t utter a single syllable. He sat back, an imposing shadow, his eyes locked onto her from behind his mask. He didn’t look at the tactical maps. He didn't look at General Smith. His gaze never left her face.

General Smith cleared his throat, leaning forward. "Given the breakdown in internal SRR logistics and the ongoing investigation into Donovan's conduct, we cannot risk asset stagnation. Effective immediately, Lieutenant Thorne, you are being reassigned as an SRR specialist to Task Force 141 under Captain Price."

Morgan simply nodded once. "Understood, General."

"Dismissed," Smith ordered.

The room cleared quickly. Price and the General walked out discussing logistics, their voices fading down the hall. Morgan didn't move. She remained seated, her elbows resting on the table, her chin propped in her hands. She openly stared at Ghost as he slowly gathered his tactical folders. He moved deliberately, matching her stare, his dark eyes holding hers for one long, silent beat before he turned and strode out the door.

********************

The rain came down in relentless, freezing sheets, hammering against the reinforced roof of the military utility vehicle. A minor security anomaly had triggered a routine perimeter patrol through the dense, muddy woodlands surrounding Hereford. By a strange twist of administrative fate—or perhaps because a certain SAS Lieutenant had quietly rewritten the duty roster—Lieutenants Riley and Thorne found themselves assigned to the same vehicle, tasked with clearing the isolated northern sector.

The engine idled with a low, mechanical hum as they parked on a ridge overlooking the tree line. The windshield wipers swept back and forth in a monotonous rhythm. Inside the cabin, the pressure of the base corridors and the watchful eyes of the security cameras were entirely gone.

Morgan leaned her head back against the headrest, staring out into the dark, rain-slicked woods. She was bored, restless, and the quiet was driving her mad. She shifted in her seat, slanting a defiant, mocking gaze toward the driver’s side.

"You know, Riley," she murmured, her voice carrying a sharp, prodding edge. "For a guy who goes by 'Ghost', you take up a hell of a lot of space. Are you ever going to tell me why you hide behind that piece of cloth, or do I have to guess?"

Ghost kept his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the dark perimeter. For a long moment, she thought he was going to ignore her completely. Then, he slowly turned his head to look at her. The shadows inside the cabin made the slits of his mask look like bottomless voids.

"The mask doesn't hide me, Thorne," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper that felt entirely too close in the cramped space. "It keeps the world out. When you've seen the dirt I've crawled through... when you've had your own grave dug for you... you realize the man you were before didn't survive the trip. The mask is all that's left."

The raw, unexpected honesty of his words hit her like a physical force. It wasn't a tactical deflection; it was a fragment of his buried past, a quiet acknowledgment of the exact same self-destructive ledge she had been walking since Maggie’s deployment went south. He was showing her his scars.

Morgan stared at him, her green eyes wide, her chest tightening as a sudden, distinct acceleration of her own pulse rattled through her veins. The intensity in his gaze was suffocating. Unable to handle the sheer weight of the intimacy, she had to look away. She abruptly averted her eyes, turning her head back toward the rain-lashed side window, forcing her breathing to slow down.

Ghost noted the sharp shift in her posture, tracking the frantic beat of the pulse in her throat, but he didn't say a single word. He simply turned back to the steering wheel, his silent presence enveloping her in the dark as the rain continued to fall.

The silence stretched, heavy and unresolved, until Morgan’s green eyes suddenly locked onto a shadow cutting through the tree line.

"There's someone there..." she whispered, her hand already dropping to the grip of her sidearm.

Before Ghost could even shift the vehicle into gear, Morgan unlatched her door and slipped out into the freezing downpour. Ghost moved a split second later, his massive frame exiting the driver's side as they immediately split up to cover opposite flanks, their boots treading silently through the slick, heavy mud.

Through her night-vision optics, Morgan spotted them. It wasn't a military force, but a heavily armed syndicate—smugglers exploiting the storm and Hereford’s blind, forested boundaries to move contraband across the rural county lines, foolishly assuming the base security only monitored the interior perimeter. They were compromised, cornered, and instantly desperate enough to kill to protect their cargo.

A man peeled off from the main group, raising a shotgun. Morgan didn’t give him the chance. She lunged forward with terrifying speed, sweeping his legs out from under him, slamming him into the mud, and neutralizing him with a swift, brutal strike to the throat.

“Two targets moving west on your flank, Ghost” Morgan’s voice cracked over the comms, cold and perfectly steady.

“Copy. Visual on three more,” Ghost’s gravelly baritone replied as the dark woods erupted into a sudden, lethal firefight. A heavy, suppressed crack echoed from his side as Ghost dropped his target with a clean, surgical shot.

Morgan pushed deeper into the trees, completely in her element. She bypassed a thick pine, coming face-to-face with two smugglers raising their rifles. With fluid kinetic energy, she raised her weapon, firing two precise rounds into the chest of the first man, dropping him instantly, before pivoting to put a third bullet directly through the visor of the second.

From fifty meters out, a hidden syndicate scout raised a rifle, aiming dead at Morgan's blind spot.

Crack.

Ghost’s high-caliber sniper rifle barked through the storm from a distant ridge. The round tore through the scout before he could pull the trigger, saving her life in a fraction of a second.

“Watch your six, Eve,” Ghost grumbled over the radio, his breathing heavy.

“Thanks for the cover,” she fired back, already sprinting toward the remaining shouting voices. She rounded a muddy embankment, instantly dropping two more smugglers who were scrambling to secure a crate of contraband.

But down the ridge, the chaos had taken a dangerous turn.

A massive, towering smuggler—easily matching Ghost’s size—had taken advantage of the blind spot in the heavy rain, flanking Ghost’s position. A sudden, stray rifle shot tore through the brush, grazing Ghost’s thigh. The white-hot impact made his leg give way, his boot skidding on the slick mud.

The giant smuggler seized the weakness, lunging forward and tackling Ghost to the ground. The two massive men crashed into the mud in a brutal, hand-to-hand struggle. The smuggler drew a heavy combat knife, using his entire body weight to drive the blade down. Ghost’s muscles strained, his heavy forearms locking out, using every ounce of his raw, formidable strength to hold the blade inches away from his own throat.

Morgan heard the scuffle over the open comms. Her eyes snapped to the ridge. She saw the flash of the rifleman who had grazed Ghost and fired a single, lethal shot that took the shooter down. Then, she sprinted through the mud, her eyes locked on the giant pinning Ghost.

She didn't hesitate. She brought her weapon up and fired a clean round directly into the side of the giant's torso. The impact shocked the man, his grip breaking as he rolled off Ghost, crashing into the wet dirt. Morgan closed the distance instantly, her boots splashing in the mud as she stood over the fallen smuggler, pumping two more cold, merciless rounds into his chest to finish him and secure the perimeter.

The silence returned to the woods, broken only by the heavy downpour.

Morgan lowered her weapon, her chest heaving as she wiped the rain and mud from her face. She looked down at Ghost, who was still on his back, his breathing ragged.

"Area clear," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, calm register.

Slowly, deliberately, she extended her hand down to him. Ghost stared at her hand through the rain, then reached up, his massive, muddy grip locking around hers. Morgan planted her boots and pulled, helping him heave his massive frame back onto his feet.

Morgan raised a hand to her earpiece, keying her comms back to base command. "Hereford Control, this is Lieutenant Thorne. Perimeter breach neutralized at Sector North. Organized syndicate smuggling operation. Send a cleanup crew and medical for transport. Out."

She dropped her hand, her green eyes shifting down to look at Ghost’s thigh, where blood was beginning to mix with the mud and rain. She looked up, locking eyes with his mask.

"Are you ok?" she asked, her tone a mix of genuine concern and her usual sharp edge.

Ghost shifted his weight, wincing almost invisibly as he tested his leg, a low, gravelly huff escaping his chest.

"Fuckin' fantastic," he growled.

*******************************

Five months of blood, sweat, and blackout ops with Task Force 141 had done something dangerous to the space between Eve and Ghost. Their dynamic had locked into place like a well-oiled weapon—seamless, lethal, and devastatingly synchronized. Yet, neither of them had dared to touch the volatile, magnetic current pulling them together, leaving it to burn quietly beneath the surface of every shared glance and tactical report.

But today, the focus was entirely elsewhere.

The heavy thud of flesh hitting leather and the squeak of combat sneakers echoed through the base gym. Sergeant Margaret "Maggie" Rochester was officially back on the canvas.

The sparring match was brutal, fast-paced, but thick with the effortless camaraderie only years in the SRR could forge. Eve was dominating the ring, moving with a fluid, terrifying grace. She was wearing loose training shorts and a cropped top layered over a tight sports bra, her skin glistening with sweat and her vibrant red hair pulled into a messy knot. Maggie, sporting a sports top and athletic leggings, was fighting like hell to keep up, her face flushed but grinning through her mouthguard.

Eve ducked under a sharp left hook from Maggie, slipping into her blind spot and landing a stinging combination to Maggie’s ribs.

"Come on, Rochester!" Eve teased, a sharp, competitive smirk flashing on her lips as she danced back. "Five months in the clinic and you’ve gone soft? My grandmother moves faster than you."

Maggie gasped for air, resetting her stance, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Eat shit, Thorne."

They traded a rapid flurry of blows, gloves clashing loudly. Maggie leaned in close during a clinch, her voice dropping into a breathless, teasing whisper right against Eve's ear. "Besides... I hear you’ve been busy. Word on the base is you're finally taming the Ghost."

Eve’s eyes narrowed instantly. She threw a hard, heavy right cross that cracked squarely against Maggie's padded guard, forcing her back.

"Shut up, you asshole!" Eve countered, a dangerous but amused heat in her voice.

Right at that exact second, the heavy double doors of the gym swung open. Ghost and Soap walked in, their deep voices echoing into the space before they froze, tracking the action in the ring.

With Ghost watching, Eve closed the distance with terrifying speed. She executed a flawless, sweeping takedown, wrapping her limbs around Maggie in a tight submission hold. With a heavy thud, they hit the canvas, and Eve smoothly transitioned, ending up sitting triumphantly over Maggie’s torso, pinning her down.

Sitting right there, Eve instinctively snapped her head toward the entrance. Her green eyes immediately collided with Ghost’s dark gaze. For one single, fatal second, the absolute gravity of his presence shattered her focus.

Maggie didn't waste the slip-up. Seizing the momentary distraction, she bucked her hips with explosive strength and wrapped her powerful legs around Eve’s upper torso in a vice-like body triangle. With a sudden, vicious twist of her core, Maggie used the leverage to launch them backward, executing a brutal sacrifice throw. The momentum forced Eve to collapse hard toward the canvas, her spine slamming into the padding with a heavy, breathless thud that rattled her ribs.

Maggie scrambled to her feet, planting her hands flat on her hips as she looked down at her friend, laughing breathlessly. "Rule number one, Lieutenant. Never look away from the target."

Eve remained flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, her chest heaving violently as she fought to claw air back into her lungs, completely spent.

"Good to have you back, Rochester," Soap’s cheerful, Scottish baritone cut through the gym as he sauntered over to the edge of the ring. He leaned against the ropes, a charming, flirtatious grin plastered across his face. "Looking sharp out there. Barely recognized you without the hospital gown."

Maggie wiped the sweat from her forehead, completely forgetting about Eve as she walked over to the ropes, leaning over them to look down at Soap with an amused smile. "Missed me, MacTavish?"

Soap chuckled, his eyes darting briefly to the crumpled form of Eve on the floor. "Aye, always. Though I think you might have actually killed Thorne this time."

Without moving an inch from the floor, Eve raised a tired middle finger toward the ropes. "Shut the fuck up, Johnny."

Ghost stood a few paces behind Soap, completely motionless. He didn't join in on the banter. His massive frame was rooted to the spot, his eyes locked onto Eve through the slits of his balaclava, tracking the rapid rise and fall of her exposed midriff, absorbing the raw, exhausted sight of her.

Eve rolled onto her side, groaning softly as she dragged herself off the canvas. Instead of using the stairs, she effortlessly slid under the bottom rope, dropping to the gym floor. She grabbed her metal water bottle from the bench, slinging a towel over her shoulder, and began her steady march toward the exit.

Her path took her directly past Ghost. She didn't slow down, but as she drew parallel to his massive shoulder, she slanted her eyes up to meet his.

"Riley," she murmured, her raspy voice a quiet challenge.

"Thorne," Ghost responded, his deep, gravelly rumble vibrating between them like a physical touch.

As she kept walking, Maggie’s teasing voice boomed from the ring, laced with pure mischief. "Hey! Don't run away now, Thorne! I’m not done with you! Next time, try keeping your eyes on the target instead of checking out the skull!"

Soap's loud laughter immediately cut through the gym.

Without breaking her stride and without looking back, Eve threw her hand up, flashing a blind middle finger over her shoulder toward the ring.

"Fuck you, Margaret!" Eve called back loudly.

Behind her, Maggie's bright, unbothered laughter echoed through the gym as she turned right back to flirting with Soap, while Ghost remained entirely still, his silent gaze heavily tracking the red-haired lieutenant until she disappeared down the corridor.

************************

The skeletal remains of the industrial shipyards in Durrës, Albania, loomed like rusted giants against the stormy Adriatic Sea. Rain fell in thick, greasy sheets, washing over the concrete labyrinths controlled by a heavily funded Balkan militia.

To blend into the nighttime shift of the forced labor crews, Morgan was dressed in a heavy, grease-stained canvas boiler suit, her vibrant red hair tightly braided and tucked beneath a dirty worker’s cap. She was completely unarmed—carrying a hidden weapon through the biometric scanners of the main server room would have compromised the entire SRR insertion.

She had executed her part with flawless, clinical precision. Slipping into the communication hub, she planted the military-grade tracker deep within the militia’s localized server frames, securing Task Force 141 an uncompromised window into the syndicate's network.

But the extraction route through the eastern docks went south in a heartbeat.

Four heavily armed militia guards stepped out from a corrugated warehouse, completely cutting off her exit into a narrow, mud-slicked alleyway.

"Hey! Stop right there," the leader barked in broken English, blinding her with a heavy flashlight beam. "Show me your transit papers."

Morgan stopped, keeping her head low and her hands raised submissively. "Just finished my shift, sir. My papers are in the locker room."

The guards closed in, boots splashing in the puddles. The leader sneered, his eyes scanning the silhouette of her boiler suit. "Locker room is closed. Turn around. Hands against the wall. Full body sweep."

One of them reached out, his thick, dirty fingers gripping her shoulder to spin her around, trying to push her harder against the brick wall than necessary.

The moment his hand tightened, Eve’s submissive posture vanished. With explosive speed, she grabbed the guard's wrist, snapping the bone over the roar of the rain. Before he could scream, she drove her elbow upward into his jaw and snatched the sidearm from his holster. In one fluid motion, she spun and fired a clean round under the chin of the second guard, dropping him into the mud.

Before the remaining two could unholster their weapons, a massive shadow detached itself from the rusted roof above. Ghost descended like a demon.

His combat knife flashed through the gloom. In a fraction of a second, the blade ripped through the throat of the third guard, choking out his alarm. Without pausing, Ghost shifted his weight, locking his massive forearm around the neck of the last man and driving his knife straight up through the base of the skull.

The alley went dead silent, save for the patter of the rain. Ghost pulled his blade free, wiping the blood on his trousers, his dark eyes locking onto Morgan through his mask.

"Took you long enough," she breathed, her chest heaving.

"You had it covered," Ghost growled over the comms. "Move. Now."

The moment they hit the open pier, the base-wide alarms began to wail, a deafening klaxon tearing through the storm. Searchlights swept across the dark water, and the shipyard erupted into absolute chaos.

"Compromised! Compromised!" Soap’s voice crackled frantically through their earpieces over heavy static. “Ghost, Thorne, we’ve got hostile anti-air batteries cycling up across the entire coastline! We’re losing the airspace! Extraction chopper is forced to abort. You have to find a hole and dig in for twenty-four hours! Do you copy? Twenty-four—”

The radio went dead, swallowed by a wave of heavy electronic jamming.

"Shit," Morgan hissed.

A hail of automatic gunfire chewed through the wooden crates behind them. They sprinted down the slippery metal dock toward a docked, high-powered rib boat. Ghost was covering their rear, his rifle barking into the darkness, dropping militia reinforcements as they flooded the pier.

Suddenly, a hidden rifleman on a crane tower fired a burst.

Thud.

A heavy 7.62 round slammed squarely into the center of Ghost’s ballistic chest plate. The sheer kinetic force of the impact sounded like a sledgehammer hitting metal. The breath was violently driven from his lungs, his knees buckling as his boot skidded on the wet wood, sending him crashing heavily onto the dock.

Morgan reversed her stride, lunging through the gunfire to grab the heavy straps of his tactical vest. Fueled by raw adrenaline, she dragged his massive frame backward along the wet planks, hauling him behind the steel hull of a harbor crane.

Slamming her back against the metal, she leaned out with Ghost’s dropped rifle and fired three precise bursts into the advancing line, dropping the frontline hostiles and forcing the rest to dive for cover.

"Get up, Riley!" she snapped, grabbing his collar, her face inches from his mask. "Do not fuckin’ die now!"

Ghost gasped, a ragged, painful wheeze escaping his throat as his lungs finally unlocked. He forced himself up, his hand clutching his bruised chest. He gave her a sharp, resolute nod.

Together, they made a final break for the RIB. Ghost fired from the hip while Morgan unhooked the lines, roaring the twin engines to life. They tore away from the pier, bouncing violently across the black, choppy waves of the Adriatic as the storm swallowed them. The blinding rain and punishing three-meter swells made pursuit impossible, acting as a fortress that cut off any thermal signatures.

They pushed the vessel hard for three miles against the brutal swells, cutting north until the lights of the port faded into the downpour. Ghost guided the boat into a shallow marshland—a graveyard of rusted shipping containers on the outskirts of Durrës. After jamming the craft beneath a tangle of half-sunken debris to hide it from coastal patrols, they moved inland on foot.

Seeking immediate cover, they navigated the shadows of a deserted industrial district toward a derelict, Eastern Bloc apartment block. Ghost sheared through the rusted padlock of a rear maintenance door with his pry tool, and they slipped inside, moving silently up the dark stairwell to the third floor to establish their defensive position.

The room they claimed was bleak, suffocatingly damp, and smelled heavily of cold cement, mold, and old rain. Outside, the storm raged on, entirely isolating them from the rest of the world.

Morgan stepped away from the cracked, grime-streaked window, ensuring the perimeter was dark. The adrenaline was finally fading, leaving her bones aching and cold. Her canvas boiler suit was completely soaked through, heavy with mud and freezing sea water.

Acting with pure, unbothered professionalism, she unzipped the heavy suit, peeled it off her shoulders, and stepped out of the muddy legs. She dragged an old metal pipe from the debris, rigging it across a corner to hang the wet canvas, letting the seawater drip rhythmically onto the cement.

For a moment, she stood in the shadow-drenched room wearing only her thin cotton tank top and underwear, her pale skin instantly raising goosebumps against the freezing draft. Her vibrant red hair clung to her neck, water droplets tracing down her collarbone.

Ghost tracked her movements silently from the center of the room. Despite his intense physical pain, his dark eyes tracked her movements through the slits of his mask. He watched the curve of her waist, the unyielding strength in her posture, and the way the pale fabric of her tank top clung to her skin.

Reaching down with a strained grunt, he unbuckled the side straps of his assault pack. He reached inside, pulling out a rolled, tightly packed military-issue black hoodie—completely dry and heavy. He tossed it across the small space.

"Put it on," he growled softly. "Hypothermia will kill you faster than the militia."

Morgan caught it, the dry fabric a blessed relief against her shivering skin. She slid the heavy black hoodie over her head. It was massive on her frame, the hem easily swallowing her shorts, leaving her thighs bare.

With one heavy hand clamped firmly over his bruised ribs, Simon moved stiffly toward a battered, stained sofa in the corner of the room. As he walked, his fingers tore at the quick-release buckles of his heavy tactical vest, letting the iron plates clatter loudly against the concrete floor. He ripped off his damp combat gloves, letting them drop into the shadows, before collapsing heavily into the worn cushions, a raw grimace of pain tightly locking his jaw. Morgan didn't take her eyes off him for a single second.

He sat there, hunched over, his breathing ragged. Yet, despite the agonizing flare in his side, his dark eyes remained fixed on her through the slits of his mask. He tracked the way his massive hoodie hung off her shoulders, the bare expanse of her legs, and the unyielding, fierce strength in her posture.

The professional distance they had maintained for five months was suddenly fraying at the edges.

Morgan walked over, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. Before sitting down, she looked at him, her voice dropping into a quiet, unyielding register that left no room for argument.

"Shirt off. Let me see the damage."

She commanded and sat directly beside him on the narrow sofa. Her proximity was overwhelming.

Ghost grunted, but he didn't fight her. With slow, strained movements, he pulled his black combat shirt over his head, discarding it into the dark.

He sat before her completely bare-chested, a towering expanse of thick muscle, heavy ink, and a map of violent, jagged scars earned in dark corners of the earth. His chest was already blooming with a massive, terrifying purple and black bruise directly over his ribs where the round had hit. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged intervals.

Morgan’s breath hitched in her throat. For a fraction of a second, her professional armor cracked. She openly stared at the raw, imposing sight of him, her green eyes tracing the hard lines of his abdomen, the width of his shoulders, and the heat radiating off his skin. She forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat, resetting her focus.

"Hold still," she whispered.

She reached out, her fingers warm against his freezing, damp skin. She gently pressed her hand against his ribs, palpating the edges of the dark bruise to check for fractures. Feeling his chest expand against her palm, hearing the sharp, caught hiss of his breath as her fingers traced his skin, created a sudden, suffocating electricity in the dark room.

Without looking up at his face, her focus remaining intensely on his bruised skin. "I'm not drunk this time, Simon," she whispered, her voice tight, raw, and completely devoid of fear.

Ghost, who had been watching her the entire time, tracking every micro-expression on her face, didn't answer with words. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand. He reached for the hem of his mask and pulled it upward, stripping it completely from his head and tossing it onto the floor.

In that exact moment, Eve looked up. Her eyes were intense, perplexed, and utterly fascinated by the man beneath the myth. He was handsome in a rugged, dangerous way, his pale skin marred by a heavy scar at the corner of his lip, his light hair damp with sweat. Her gaze instinctively dropped to his lips, heavy and parted, before her hand slowly traveled up his chest, her fingers wrapping firmly around his strong, tense jawline.

Simon didn't say a word. He didn't need to.

With a sudden, predatory movement, his massive hand shot up, his fingers tangling deeply into her wet, red hair at the back of her head. He lunged forward, tilting her face up and slamming his mouth against hers in a brutal, burning kiss.

It was an absolute explosion of every ounce of sexual tension they had buried under blood, orders, and discipline for months. Simon pulled her body flush against his bare chest, his lips parting hers with an aggressive, possessive hunger, tasting the rain and the fire on her tongue, erasing the distance between them until there was nothing left but the heat of their skin in the dark.

The heat of his mouth against hers was suffocating, a violent release of months of forced restraint. Simon’s massive hands slid down from her hair, clamping around her waist with bruising force as he lifted her effortlessly, shifting her body until she was straddling his lap on the battered sofa. Her knees digging into the cushions on either side of his thighs, her fingers immediately tearing at the heavy tactical belt and tactical trousers at his waist, desperate to rid them of the remaining barrier.

Simon growled low in his throat, a primal, jagged sound that vibrated straight against her lips. He gripped the hem of the heavy black hoodie he had loaned her, dragging it up and over her head in one swift, rough motion, tossing it into the shadows. He didn't stop there; his large hands caught the bottom of her thin white tank top, pulling it off right behind the hoodie, before his fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear. With a desperate, animalistic tug, the fabric tore completely, exposing her to the damp, cold air of the room.

Neither of them could feel the cold anymore. Eve was completely naked against his chest, skin against skin, the friction intoxicating. Simon's large hands roamed wildly over her body, gripping her thighs and pressing his palms into the small of her back, squeezing her tightly against him. Eve let out a series of low, breathless whimpers straight into his mouth, shifting her hips as she felt the hard, unyielding pressure of his erection grinding directly against her wet center.

With a sudden, powerful surge of his upper body, completely oblivious to the white-hot flare of agony in his bruised ribs, Simon flipped her. He pinned her flat against the back of the couch, his massive, bare chest crushing down against her breasts, his heavy weight anchoring her beneath him.

He didn't wait. He guided himself against her soaking wet heat and drove into her in one deep, unyielding thrust that buried him completely inside her.

Eve gasped, her head slamming back against the cushions with a long, raw, deeply sensual moan. Her hands instantly flew to his broad shoulders, her fingernails digging deep into his skin as her body stretched to accommodate him. The sheer, raw size of him filled her entirely, a hard, relentless pressure that made her mind go completely blank.

Simon didn't give her time to breathe. He began to move, his hips slamming against hers with a brutal, heavy rhythm. Every impact was hard and unhurried, his thighs grinding against hers as he drove inside her over and over again, his breath coming in ragged, harsh pants right against her ear.

"Simon—fuck," Eve choked out, her voice breaking as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, squeezing her thighs hard against his flanks, pulling him deeper with desperate, frantic strength.

The encounter was messy, raw, and completely unpolished. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the rain still damp on her skin. The old leather of the sofa groaned beneath their combined, violent movements, the sound swallowed by the heavy downpour outside. Simon’s hands pinned her wrists to the couch on either side of her head, his fingers locking between hers, asserting complete, dominant control as he continued to punish her body with deep, heavy strokes.

He let out a low, guttural grunt with every thrust, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck strained to the bursting point. Eve was completely undone beneath him, the friction between them staggering, building a white-hot, agonizing pleasure that threatened to shatter her.

"Look at me," Simon growled, his gravelly baritone rough, completely stripped of the soldier. "Eve. Look at me."

She looked up at him, her green eyes heavy-lidded and hooded with pure, unadulterated pleasure. She locked her gaze onto his face, panting heavily as he delivered devastating, deep thrusts that hit her core. Seeing the absolute, possessive focus in his eyes as he claimed her body destroyed the last remnants of her control. Her inner muscles clamped down hard around him, pulsing violently as a shattering, overwhelming climax tore through her frame.

Simon felt the sudden, crushing squeeze of her release and lost his own grip completely. With a final, guttural roar that tore from his chest, he drove into her one last time, pinning her hips hard against the cushions as he came inside her, his entire massive frame shuddering violently as he poured himself into her.

He collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of her wet, tangled red hair, his chest heaving as their ragged, broken breathing filled the dark, quiet safehouse. *****************

The golden morning sun cut sharply through the thin curtains of Eve’s apartment, casting a warm, amber glow across the room and illuminating the smooth, pale expanse of her bare back. The frantic, muddy desperation of Albania was gone, replaced by the quiet, heavy heat of her bedroom.

Eve was straddling Simon, completely naked, her knees dug into the mattress on either side of his massive thighs. She was moving with an agonizingly slow, calculated sensuality, lifting her hips and slumping back down, sliding her wet center deliberately against the thick, stretching length of him. Simon lay flat on his back, his large, scarred hands clamped firmly around the flare of her hips, anchoring her, guiding the agonizingly slow rhythm. His head was tilted slightly forward off the pillow, his jaw tense, his dark eyes hooded and his mouth parted in a tight, breathless grimace as he watched her claim him.

The heavy, dragging friction was pure torture, driving Simon to the absolute brink of collapse. With every slow, rolling arch of her pelvis, the heavy bounce of Eve’s full breasts caught the morning light—a staggering, breathless sight that held Simon entirely captive. He watched the taut peak of her nipples harden in the cool air, contrasted against the burning heat where their bodies locked together.

Unable to take the agonizing restraint any longer, Simon’s grip on her hips tightened until his knuckles turned white. He surged upward, sitting straight up in the bed. The sudden change in trajectory forced him deeper inside her, his broad, scarred chest colliding heavily with her bare breasts, skin sticking to skin in a rush of sweltering heat.

Eve gasped, her spine arching as she instinctively braced herself against Simon’s flexed, bent knees that framed her body. The tangled white sheets were twisted around them, only partially covering the curve of her thighs and his hips, leaving the raw, visceral point of their connection completely exposed to the sunlight.

Simon reached up, his large fingers wrapping firmly around her jawline. He tilted her head down, forcing her face closer to his. Simon looked up through his lashes, his sharp, possessive gaze locking onto her wild green eyes as he delivered a sudden, hard upward thrust that hit her core.