The training mats were slick with sweat, the air thick and heavy in the confined sparring room. You’d been going at it with Ghost for over an hour - grapples, takedowns, strikes. He’d insisted you work on your close-combat techniques, and naturally, you agreed. What you didn’t account for was how damn stubborn he was about winning every round.

“You’re getting slow,” he drawled through his mask, circling you like a predator waiting for its moment.

You wiped sweat from your brow, narrowing your eyes. “Maybe you’re just talking too much, Riley.”

He chuckled, low and rough. “That all you got, {{user}}?”

Gritting your teeth, you lunged forward, aiming for a sweep to knock him off balance. He sidestepped with maddening ease, grabbing your arm and twisting just enough to pull you off your feet. Before you knew it, you were flat on your back, Ghost towering over you, pinning your wrist to the mat.

“Too slow,” he muttered, his voice thick with exertion.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, but not just from the fight. The weight of him above you, the heat rolling off his body - it sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the workout.

You turned your face him. “I let you win.”

His eyes gleamed with something dangerous behind the mask. “Is that right?”

Before you could respond, he shifted, releasing your wrist but leaning down, his forearm braced beside your head.

Your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot where you were, why you were even fighting in the first place.

“You gonna pin me here all night?” you managed to quip, though your voice wavered.

Ghost’s eyes flicked to your lips for just a fraction of a second, barely noticeable - but you caught it.

“Depends,” he murmured, his tone darkening. “You tapping out?”