From the start, it had been tense.

You and Ghost were teammates, but barely. Every mission was a clash of stubborn wills. Every look, every word, sparked with friction. You pushed each other—too hard, too often—and no one dared to get in the middle. It wasn’t just competition. It was something else. He got under your skin. You got under his.

And then they put your quarters next to each other. That helped nothing.

Tonight, the base was quiet. Most were out on rotation. You had the laundry room to yourself—finally. You tossed your last load into the dryer and leaned back, stretching your arms, letting the hum of the machines fill the silence.

Then the door opened.

You didn’t have to look. Heavy boots. That familiar weight in the air.

Ghost.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. Watching. Always watching.

“Didn’t think this was a shared space,” you said, not bothering to turn.

“Didn’t think you’d be here alone,” he replied, that gravel in his voice somehow louder in the quiet room.

You glanced at him, catching the intensity in his stare. It wasn’t hostile. Not exactly.

“You following me, Riley?”

His head tilted. “Maybe.”

You stepped closer without thinking, the heat between you crackling like static. “You always lurk, or just when I’m doing my laundry?”

“You always this mouthy, or just when I’m in the room?”

There was a beat. Then he pushed off the wall and closed the space between you in three slow steps. Your back hit the machine behind you, the thrum of it vibrating through your legs. He didn’t touch you—yet—but the tension was thick enough to taste.

“You gonna move?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” you said, pulse jumping.

His gloved hand slid to your hip, grip firm, gaze locked on yours. He turned you, hands steady, bending you forward until your palms hit the cool metal surface of the machine. The air left your lungs in a slow exhale. You didn’t resist. You didn’t want to.