The base was quieter than usual tonight—too quiet for a place full of soldiers who never truly slept. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting that dull, sterile glow over concrete walls and polished floors. Somewhere down the hall, boots echoed, voices murmured—but here, inside his space, it was different.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley’s room.

No one came here unless they were called. No one lingered. It was understood—his quarters were off-limits.

Except for you.

The door shut behind you with a soft click—and before you could even turn fully, a gloved hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you sharply back against solid muscle.

“Late,” Ghost muttered, his voice rough, thick with that Manchester edge—but lower than usual. Private.

For you.

Your back hit the cool surface of the door, breath catching as he stepped in close. Towering. Overwhelming. The faint scent of gun oil and something darker clung to him, familiar in a way that made your pulse quicken.

“You said ten minutes,” you shot back under your breath, chin tilting up despite the position he had you in. “Not five.”

There it was—that attitude of yours. The one that would’ve gotten anyone else put in their place instantly.

But not you.

Never you.

A quiet huff left him, something almost like amusement, though his grip tightened just slightly. His masked face dipped closer, the skull pattern inches from yours.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice dropping softer—dangerously softer. “Keep talkin’ like that, someone might hear.”

Your heart thudded—but not from fear.

From the thrill of it.

The risk.

Because that was the thing—this? Whatever this was between you and Ghost? It wasn’t allowed. Not in the force. Not between ranks like yours. If anyone found out…

It’d be over.

But that only made it worse.

Or better.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt before you could stop yourself, pulling him just a fraction closer. “Then maybe you shouldn’t drag me in here, Lieutenant.”

The title rolled off your tongue like a tease—and it did exactly what you intended.

He stilled.

Then, slowly, his other hand came up—tilting your chin just enough to force your gaze to stay on him.

“You know to drop the rank when it’s just us, {{user}}, so drop it,” he said quietly.

Not a suggestion.

A command.

But softer than any order he’d ever given on the field.

Your breath hitched—and for a second, neither of you moved. The air between you thick, charged, like the moment before a trigger’s pulled.

Then his forehead pressed lightly against yours through the mask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day.”

It wasn’t something Ghost said lightly. Hell—it wasn’t something he said at all.

Which made it hit harder.

Your grip tightened instinctively, pulse racing as his hand slid from your chin—down, slow and deliberate, resting at your waist like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

Like you never did.

The space between you shrank, tension snapping tighter with every second—

A sharp knock hit the door.

Both of you froze.

“Oi, Ghost—” a familiar voice called from the other side. Johnny MacTavish—or really—Soap. “You in there?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Too close.

Way too close.

Before you could react, Ghost moved—fast, instinctive. One hand clamped firmly over your mouth, the other pulling you flush against him, turning your body just enough to keep you hidden from the direct line of the door.

“Quiet,” he breathed against your ear, voice barely audible now—but commanding in a way that left no room for argument.