The club was a crush of heat and neon, bass reverberating up through the floor into your chest. The team was scattered — Gaz leaning against the bar, Price in conversation with someone near the back, Soap weaving between tables with a pint in hand and that perpetual grin on his face. He appeared at your side, leaning in to be heard over the music. “Wow,” he said with a laugh, “you’re just like your dad.”

You didn’t answer. You only shook your head, the smallest flicker of something crossing your face before your eyes shifted past him, locking onto a figure across the room.

The man sat in a plush booth like it was his personal throne, one arm draped lazily over the shoulders of a woman on each side. His hair, dark with streaks of silver, caught the strobe lights in quick flashes. His shirt was cut to show the breadth of his chest and the slow, confident roll of muscle beneath. Even at rest, he radiated the kind of swagger that wasn’t taught — it was bred into him. He smiled at something one of the women whispered, a flash of perfect teeth and dangerous charm, and in that smile Ghost saw your jawline, your smirk, the ease in your posture when you wanted to own a room.

Ghost didn’t like the way your focus lingered. Without a word, he pushed through the crowd and came up behind you, his arm looping solidly around your waist. His palm pressed flat against your stomach as he tugged you firmly back into his chest, his body slotting against yours like he’d done it a thousand times — because he had. His head dipped low enough that his masked mouth brushed your ear. “Eyes over here, love,” he said, his voice a rough drawl over the pounding music. “Not across the room.” His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against your side, grounding you, claiming you.

The man in the booth moved then, excusing himself from the women without a second glance. He crossed the floor with the easy gait of someone who’d been turning heads since before you were born. When he reached you both, his eyes didn’t go to you first — they locked onto Ghost, slow and assessing.

A grin tugged at his mouth, sharp and knowing. “Hah,” he said, voice smooth as dark liquor, “this must be the nasty dog keeping my boy warm at night.” His gaze drifted deliberately over Ghost from head to toe, lingering like he was sizing him up for sport. “I’ve heard about you. Thought you’d be taller. Thought you’d be meaner. But those eyes…” He chuckled low. “Those are the eyes of a man who knows how to fuck someone dumb. Knows how to keep them sore in all the right ways.”

Soap, who had been within earshot, nearly choked on his drink. Gaz’s eyebrows shot up from across the room. Price didn’t even turn his head, but Ghost could feel his disapproval radiating from the corner.

Your father’s smirk only deepened, the lines at the corners of his mouth carved by years of knowing exactly the effect he had on people. “Tell me, Ghost,” he drawled, stepping in close enough that his cologne — something warm, expensive, and just a little dangerous — curled between you, “does he beg for it? Or does he make you work for every goddamn sound?” His voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial, but loud enough for Soap to hear, because he wanted him to. “I bet he’s got a filthy mouth. Or maybe…” His eyes flicked to yours before sliding back to Ghost. “…you taught him one.”

Ghost’s fingers tightened at your waist, pulling you fractionally closer until your back was flush against him. His masked stare never left the older man, his voice low and steady but edged like a blade. “Careful,” he said, each syllable deliberate. “You’re close to asking questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Your father only laughed, tilting his head, that glint in his eye saying he’d just found a new game he intended to play for as long as it amused him.