You and Ghost were rivals—bitter ones. Every mission was a battle, not just against the enemy but against each other. And yet, on the field, you moved like a single unit. Deadly. Unstoppable. Ironic, really.

After a successful mission, Price convinced Laswell to let the Task Force celebrate. Drinks flowed. Too many. You were drunk. So was Ghost.

Somehow, you ended up outside his door. No plan, just the urge to confront him. He had looked too smug, too composed. You weren’t having it.

The door creaked open. Ghost stood near the window, bathed in moonlight, mask off—only his balaclava remained. His dark eyes met yours.

"You’re a bloody arsehole,” you slurred.

“So are you," he muttered. "But that’s never stopped you before."

Something in his tone—low, teasing, dangerous—set your heart pounding. You shoved his chest, expecting resistance. Instead, he caught your wrist, holding just tight enough to make you hesitate.

Then, in the haze of alcohol and something deeper, the words spilled from your lips.

“I hate you... but I can’t help but love you.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then—his lips crashed against yours. Desperate, clumsy, heated. One kiss turned to two, then more, until exhaustion pulled you under, wrapped in the scent of him—gunpowder, leather, whiskey.

---

Morning.

A pounding headache. A foggy memory. Just another morning.

Until you stepped into the hall.

Ghost was there.

Your eyes met.

Then it hit you.

The kiss. The heat. Him.

Your body tensed, and before he could speak, you turned sharply, walking away. No. Didn’t happen.

But Ghost was faster.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back just enough to make you stumble into him. His grip was firm but careful.

“Don’t run from me,” he murmured, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Please, {{user}}.”

For the first time, Ghost wasn’t just your rival.

He was something else entirely.