You weren't exactly sure what was worse: the deafening silence of the war room or him standing right across you, arms crossed, eyes behind that goddamn skull mask staring holes through you.

Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Your rival. Your shadow. Your personal hell in tactical boots.

Every mission you were spent on, he somehow ended up involved. Either cleaning up the mess or barking orders like he was in charge. The only person who could match your wit, your kill count... and your temper.

You hated him. You told yourself you did.

Until the mission in Prague.

---

You'd gone in alone- intel said the building was only half-occupied. A simple recon op, in and out.

Execpt intel was wrong.

You were outnumbered, bleeding from a graze to your thigh, and cornered on the rooftop with only three rounds left. Radio static hissed in your ear until his voice broke through.

"Hold tight. I'm coming."

"Of course it's you," you muttered bitterly, limping behind a vent. "Don't get shirt. I'd hate to owe you my life."

He landed on the rooftop five minutes later, smoke and chaos in his wake. You hated the way your chest loosened at the sight of him. Hated how easily he fought his way to your side.

"You're hurt," he muttered, crouching to check your leg.

"No shit." You winced. "Did you come here to nag me?"

"No, came to save your stubborn ass, sweetheart." His voice low. Mocking. But... softer than usual.

You blinked. Sweetheart?