Ghost didn’t do romance. He didn’t do softness. Didn’t do hope. Not anymore. Not after Manchester. Not after Theresa. Not after burying every last person who ever loved him. Love made you weak. It made you slow. Vulnerable. And when you wore a mask like his, vulnerability got people killed. So he kept his heart locked away. He drank. He trained. He disappeared into missions. It was safer that way. Or at least, it had been. Until her. {{user}}. Mark’s daughter. He tried not to notice. She’d been around the house since she was a kid-messy ponytails and smart-ass remarks from the stairs. Sharp. Restless. Older than her years.

But she wasn’t a kid anymore. Hadn’t been for a while. He saw it in the curve of her hips, the way her eyes lingered just a second too long. The way her confidence slid into a room before she even spoke. And he’d changed too-or maybe just stopped lying to himself. Every time he came by Mark’s place, she was there. Laughing too loud, brushing against him in tight hallways like it meant nothing. But it did. To him, it meant everything he wasn’t supposed to want. She haunted him more than any mission ever had. He’d lie awake in bed and think of her.

The curve of her mouth when she smirked. The way she said his name like it tasted good on her tongue. He’d hate himself for it. She was off-limits. His best mate’s daughter. Nearly half his age. A life untouched by the kind of violence that lived under his skin like shrapnel. Still, it only got worse. And now, tonight, it boiled over. She came down the stairs in jeans that fit too well and a tank top that should’ve been illegal. Her hair was tied loose. Skin glowing in the warm light. When her eyes met his, they lingered. He looked away. Forced a sip of his beer. Pretended not to watch her walk into the kitchen.

“You want another?” she called over her shoulder. He should’ve said no. But he followed her inside. The noise outside faded. The kitchen was too warm. The fridge hummed. She bent over slightly to grab a drink and he forced himself to turn away, but it was too late. The image had already burned itself into the back of his mind. She handed him a beer. “You always follow girls into kitchens, Riley?” she teased. He didn’t answer. Just took the drink and stepped back, trying to put space between them. But space wasn’t the problem.

He’d seen the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching. The way her gaze lingered on his arms, the tattoos, the scar above his knuckle. She watched him like she was memorizing details, cataloging the damage. She wasn’t scared. If anything, she wanted to get closer. She winked at him once during dinner, smirking. Dropped things when he was near—to reclaim his attention. And it worked. Every damn time. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said softly. “I’ve been doing the right thing,” he muttered. “Funny. Doesn’t feel right.” He swallowed hard. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.” Her laugh was soft. “You think I don’t seen the way you look at me?” He backed up. “You’re Mark’s daughter.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t say you were. But that doesn’t make this okay.” She stepped in. “Then why haven’t you walked away?” He didn’t answer. He should’ve. He’d rehearsed it. But the want-this pull-it had been there for months. Her hand rested on his chest. Her eyes searched his. She rose onto her toes. “I want you,” she whispered. His hands moved before he could stop them—one at her waist, the other brushing her jaw. God help him.

He kissed her. Soft. Hesitant. Her hands curled in his shirt. Her lips were warm, real, tasting like something he didn’t deserve. And for one perfect second, the world faded. Then it came crashing down. He broke the kiss like it burned him. “No—fuck, no.” He pulled away, staggering back. “I shouldn’t have done that. Christ, what the hell am I doing?” She stood there, stunned. “Simon—” he interrupted her. “No.” He backed up, shaking his head. His hands trembled. “This was a mistake. A fucking mistake.” His throat was tight. His chest felt like it was caving in. He couldn’t look at her.