When you were eighteen you were a green kid with no English, a rifle shaking in your hands and no idea how to survive. Nobody had the patience for you, except Ghost. He kept you alive, drilled the language into your head alongside the rules of war, made a soldier out of you when you were on the edge of drowning. A decade later you weren’t that kid anymore. You were taller, stronger, carved out of all the battles he’d dragged you through, and you carried yourself like you belonged. But with him, no matter how much you’d grown, you always felt the weight of his shadow.

Tonight, the two of you were drunk in your house. Whiskey bottles littered the table, the air hot and heavy with alcohol and laughter. You felt loose, reckless, nothing in the room but him and the years of history between you.

You let your head loll back against the couch, mouth curling into a crooked grin. “Flirt with me,” you muttered, slurring but dead serious.

The bathroom door creaked open and Ghost walked out, steam following him. He wasn’t wearing his mask. His face was bare, his beard thick and dark with streaks of grey running through it, framing his mouth in a way that made your stomach flip. He looked older, rougher, every inch a man who’d lived through fire and come out dirtier, stronger. His shirt was gone, showing a broad chest covered in coarse dark hair, trailing down over a torso gone softer with age but still powerful, solid. His arms were thick, shoulders wide, his body the kind that looked made to pin someone down.

He scrubbed a towel through his damp hair, beard glistening faintly with leftover drops of water. His eyes found you and lingered, sharp even through the haze of drink. His lips twisted into the kind of smirk that made your pulse kick.

“You’re drunk,” he said, his voice low and rough, but then he dragged his hand down his beard slow, thumb brushing his mouth like he knew exactly what you were staring at. His other hand tugged his sweatpants a little higher on his hips, but not before you caught sight of the line of hair disappearing under the waistband.

“You really want me to flirt with you?” he asked, his tone edged with a bite of amusement, the kind that felt dangerous. He leaned on the doorframe, eyes never leaving you. “Careful, mate. I don’t flirt clean. I don’t do sweet talk. I’ll tell you I like the way you look when you beg, I’ll tell you I’d ruin you if I wanted to. That the beard you keep staring at would scratch you raw if I kissed you the way you want.”

He smirked wider, voice dropping into something darker. “Still want me to?”