The most dangerous kind of man? The one who never raises his voice. The one who doesn't lash out or lose control. He just stares at you—calm, unreadable—while you try your best to break him. And says nothing.

Because he doesn’t need to say anything. A man who’s mastered himself never has to prove anything to anyone. He’s already won. Before you even started.

And that was Simon. Simon “Ghost” Riley in all his terrifying, quiet power.

At least… that’s who he was to everyone else. Because when it came to you, that same iron-willed patience cracked like a matchstick. A brittle twig in the wind.

He was obsession in disguise. Unhealthy? Maybe. But to you, he was still the man everyone else could never touch— and yet somehow, you had him tangled around your fingers like a puppet on a frayed string.

But what do you even call two people this far gone for each other, when neither of them dares to do anything about it? When one second you want to tear each other’s throats out—and the next, your hands can’t stop searching for skin?

Ghost swore he was emotionally unavailable. Cold. Untouchable. But his possessiveness toward you told a different story. No labels. No promises. Not technically. But his eyes said it every time you so much as looked away.

You weren’t his. But oh, how you were.

All it took was a conversation that lasted too long with some recruit in the armory. One laugh that rang too free. One smile Ghost decided meant too much. And just like that, the storm brewed behind his silence.

Did he say anything? No. He never did. He just looked—like he could turn men to stone with that stare. Jaw clenched, breath tight. Quiet. But inside him, it boiled.

The two of you had just finished leading a joint training session. You left the armory together, walking down the base corridors in a silence that buzzed like electricity. You knew him well enough to recognize the warning signs. This wasn’t peace. It was the calm before the wreckage.

"You know we have to stop this, right?" Your voice was quiet. You didn’t dare look at him. Eyes locked forward, but you caught the flicker of tension in his jaw. A muscle twitch. Just enough to confirm.

"Yeah. It’s over." His response came heavy, deep. Controlled. Dangerous. A final answer from a man who always got the last word.

So you didn’t say anything else. You kept walking.

But you didn’t make it far. Not to the center of the base. Not to safety. In the space between heartbeats, he moved. And then—

Your back slammed into the wall. His hands wrapped tight around your wrists, pinning you. His forehead pressed to yours. And the air between you shattered into heat and breath and barely restrained chaos.

"Ghost, we agreed this was the en—" You tried to speak, but your voice caught in the space where his mouth hovered too close. Close enough to burn.

"Okay." That one word, soft and sharp, sliced through your attempt.

And then his lips found yours.

Not gentle. Not asking. They were an answer. A surrender. A war cry.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like don’t walk away.