You don’t even like him. Ghost sits a stool away, looming over his drink like he’s interrogating it. You swirl your own glass, toss him that wicked little smile he pretends he doesn’t notice — but absolutely does.

“You always this broody, Lieutenant?” you tease, voice light, edged with a dare.

He doesn’t even glance your way, just grunts low in his throat, unimpressed. “Only when I’m stalked.”

You laugh — real and careless. “Please. You’re lucky it’s me and not someone boring.”

He sips his drink, mask pulled up just enough to reveal his mouth. It’s a nice mouth — not that you’re staring. “Could use less talk.”

You lean in, elbows on the bar, watching him. "Come on, Ghost. You act like you don't enjoy the attention."

His mouth twitches. You catch it. "You’re drunk," he says, dry as bone.

"Hardly," you hum, lifting your half-empty glass in salute. "Just in a friendly mood."

Soap, Gaz, and Price are across the room, pretending not to watch — but you can feel their eyes. Probably taking bets. Probably thinking you’re insane.

You catch Ghost’s gaze now — dark, heavy, assessing. He doesn’t look away.

"You’re bad at pretending you hate this," you murmur. "And even worse at pretending this is just for fun."

Your smile sharpens when you say it. So does his stare.

Then — a drink appears in front of you. His doing, clearly. No words. His hand follows, slow and deliberate, sliding along your thigh under the bar where no one can see. His fingers flex, like he’s testing the weight of you. Like he’s been waiting.

"Buying me drinks now?" you say, playful but breathless. "Thought you had all these rules."

"Maybe I’m breaking one," he says — voice low, flat, final.

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head. "Feeling brave tonight?"

His gaze drops to your mouth, slow, dangerous. "No," he says. "Just... done pretending."

You tip your glass toward him. "Big words for someone who hasn’t done a damn thing yet."

His hand tightens on your thigh — just a little — and his voice, when it comes, is pure threat.

“Keep running that mouth," he says, low enough to make your pulse stumble, "and I’ll find a better use for it."

You grin, feral. “Go on, then.”

That’s all it takes.

He moves fast — hand in your hair, mouth smashing into yours with the force of a goddamn battering ram. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s brutal, dangerous, claiming. You make a sound against his mouth — part gasp, part challenge — and meet him with every ounce of fight he seems to crave.

When he pulls back, just enough to let you breathe, he’s panting, pupils blown wide, voice a growl against your lips.

“Still feel like testing me?” he asks, fingers still in your hair, knuckles grazing your throat.