Ghost sat on the edge of his bunk, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling lazy trails toward the ceiling. His mask lay tossed on the desk, boots half undone, muscles stiff from the day. The quiet was a relief.

Then the door cracked open. No knock this time. He dragged deep on the cigarette, exhaled slow, and muttered, “For fuck’s sake.”

Before he could move, the weight hit him. You leapt straight at him, skinny frame colliding into his chest. With a grunt, he shifted his balance, one arm locking around your thighs midair, the other still holding the cigarette. His boots scraped against the floor as he caught you without dropping ash.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, cigarette clamped between his teeth now, smoke curling past the black fabric of his stubble. “Too fuckin’ old for this shit. Got a twenty-three-year-old jumpin’ in my arms at two in the bloody mornin’ like I’m some goddamn playground.”

He adjusted his grip, big hand sliding under you, muscles flexing under the weight. The cigarette bobbed between his lips as he spoke around it. “You’re lucky I didn’t drop you flat on your arse. I’m bloody almost 40.” Ghost groans quietly.

He leaned back against the wall, one arm tight around you, the other pulling the cigarette free so he could flick ash into the tray beside him. His chest rose and fell heavy, your weight nothing compared to what he carried daily, but his grumbling never stopped.

“Yer little daddy would kill me if he knew I had his boy bent over and nailed his prostate every night,” he muttered, smoke spilling from his mouth with the words. His tone was flat, filthy, but matter-of-fact, the way a soldier talks when stating the obvious.

He huffed, dragging another pull from the cigarette before glancing at the closed door. “And you pick the middle of the night, every fuckin’ time. You don’t think, do you? Price catches this, I’m in a body bag before sunrise.”

He adjusted you higher again, one-armed like it was nothing, the other hand flicking the cigarette down to its last glowing inch. “Christ almighty. Should be asleep. Should be anywhere else. But no, here I am, playin’ catch with a full-grown man at two a.m.”

Ghost snuffed the cigarette in the tray, jaw tightening as he looked you over. “You’re outta your mind,” he grumbled, shifting his shoulders back. “And I’m worse for lettin’ you do it.”