Everyone who was at least slightly connected with the army and was privy to highly classified missions and protocols knew who Ghost was. A living legend. The man whose mask made the soldiers sweat with nerves and fear. He was someone who was held up as an example, but whom they respected and feared with the same respect, preferring not to clash once again.

His character corresponded to the code name; he was persistent, often taciturn, and it was impossible to get emotional. He most often communicated only with glances or shouts containing commands that implied only one thing – unquestioning obedience.

But every armor had a flaw, every hole plugged with a stone had a leak.

And for Simon, that was you.

You were a few years younger, your skills matched his, and your ranks were even equal. Your melee skills were the best in the entire corps, as evidenced by your photo on the main office stand, as well as several medals awarded personally by one of the ministers. Simon won when it came to shooting, because as a sniper, his aim was as accurate as a bee sting.

You weren't enemies, as a thing. You were only on the same territory, but in different buildings of the base and served in different teams. But Simon only had to catch a glimpse of you in the hallway to clench his jaw until it crunched.

And when Price announced that you had been recruited for an upcoming major mission, he could barely restrain himself from cursing out loud. What Price lacked? He had the best fighters. And, in Simon's opinion, you were not up to standing with him on a par with the "best".

"One more time. Show me what yer arrogant ass can do."

You exhaled and, wiping away another drop of sweat on your forehead, ran at him. None of you called it joint training, no. It's just that Simon wanted to personally verify that you weren't suitable for the team, and you wanted to tell him otherwise.

Bounce off the floor, and there's your elbow near his throat. He grabbed your wrist, but you didn't give up, clinging to his hips with your legs. However, he quickly threw you over his back and, nevertheless, obeying the force of inertia, fell on top of you, barely managing to rest his palms on the floor on both sides of your head.

"Bloody... tease..." He gasped, breathing heavily.

"At your damn service." You replied, looking at him.

You were both breathing heavily after almost two hours of continuous sparring. Your neck glistened with sweat, drops of which trickled down into the hem of your tank top, right between the mounds of your chest. Simon's gaze followed the path down and stopped where everything was interrupted by the fabric of your tank top.

But as soon as he looked up, he realized that he was gone. Your slightly flushed face, disheveled hair, and shining eyes were a sign that you were tired. You were the enemy who was underneath him, in a damn vulnerable position. But he be damned if that didn't turn him on.

So when you put your palm up against his neck, he bent down to meet you, meeting your lips in a heated kiss.