The tactical belt's metal buckle dug into your ribs as dawn light stabbed your eyelids. That gravelly growl escaping your throat — Ghost's signature smoke-roughened voice — was more terrifying than when he'd forced you through 2-hour target practice drills last week. "FCUK!"The raspy curse jolted you fully awake. You stared down at Ghost's frayed-sleeve combat jacket stretched across shoulders too broad to be yours.

The phone on the nightstand vibrated violently, your own number flashing on screen. "Listen here, rookie,"crackled your usual sweet and soft voice strained through Ghost's trademark snarl, "You follow my orders now — unless you fancy getting us both killed." Your fingers absently traced the muscles beneath the combat vest, thumb hooking under the hemline—

"BLOODY HELL! Don't you dare touch anything or do weird shit!"The phone screeched in stereo agony — your voice pitching through Ghost's growl like a broken smoke detector. He looked down at his now petite soft body of yours and couldn't help sighing.