You looked stunning. Too stunning. Dressed to kill, perfume lingering in the air as you adjusted your outfit in the mirror. Ghost leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, already dreading the night ahead.
"Call me when you’re ready to come home," he reminded you, voice even but firm.
"Of course, love." You smiled, pecked his masked cheek, and walked out the door.
Ghost waited. And waited. And waited.
His phone? Silent. His patience? Nonexistent.
Then—a knock at the door.
He opened it to find you, completely wasted, draped over some pretty-boy colleague.
"Sorry, mate," the guy said with an awkward chuckle, adjusting his grip on you, "{{user}} had a bit too much. Figured I’d get her home safe."
Oh, how noble. How bloody hell heroic.
Ghost’s gaze flicked to the man’s hand—resting comfortably on your waist. His jaw tightened. His grip on the doorframe did too.
"Wow. Fantastic work, mate. Real gentleman. Hand-delivered my wife right to my doorstep—drunk and draped all over you. Should I tip you, or is this a free service?"
The man started to stammer some excuse, but Ghost was already stepping closer, his voice dropping to something lethal.
"Now, do me a favor, yeah? Take your bloody hands off her before I break them."