Maybe sneaking off to make out with Ghost in the dimly lit bathroom after a mission hadn’t been your smartest decision. The air still smelled faintly of gunpowder and cheap soap, the adrenaline from the operation buzzing under your skin. The fluorescent light above flickered, casting sharp shadows across the tiled walls—and across the skull-patterned mask that hid most of his face.

Your back was pressed lightly against the cool porcelain sink, Ghost’s gloved hands resting at your waist, grounding but firm. His forehead touched yours for a brief second, his breath warm through the fabric of his mask. Even exhausted, even battered from the field, there was something steady about him—something that always pulled you closer.

Then his walkie-talkie crackled to life.

“Ghost, do you copy? Where are you?”

Captain Price’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

You both froze.

For a split second, neither of you moved. Then you slowly pulled apart, the tension breaking into a silent exchange of amusement. Ghost tilted his head slightly, dark eyes glinting with mischief. Only his lips were visible beneath the mask, and you could see the faint curve of a smirk forming there.

He unhooked the talkie-walkie from his vest and pushed it gently into your hands.

“Go on, doll,” he murmured, his British accent low and rough around the edges. “Tell him where we are.”

You shot him a look, half disbelief, half laughter threatening to spill out. The device felt heavier than it should have, Price’s expectant silence crackling through the speaker.

Ghost leaned one shoulder against the stall door now, arms folding across his broad chest like he had all the time in the world. Completely unbothered. Completely entertained.

The radio crackled again. “Ghost?”

He raised a brow at you in challenge.

“C’mon,” he coaxed softly. “Wouldn’t want the Captain thinkin’ I’ve gone soft, would we?”

Your heart was still racing—but now for a very different reason.