The bathroom was dim, the single flickering light above the mirror casting pale stripes across tile walls still fogged from the last person’s quick shower. The base was loud tonight—boots pounding down the hallway, radios buzzing, the distant clatter of weapons being cleaned—but in here, behind a locked door, the world felt impossibly small.

Small enough for your back to press against the sink, for Ghost’s gloved hands to cage your hips, and for his breath to warm the corner of your jaw as he kissed you.

You still had the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue. Ghost still smelled faintly of gunpowder and cold air. The two of you probably looked insane if anyone walked in: half-uniformed, flushed, tangled around each other in a room not meant for this.

But the mission had been long, brutal, and the moment he’d caught your gaze after debrief, something inside both of you had snapped. Or maybe clicked. Maybe this had been building for weeks.

His mask brushed your cheek as he kissed you again; slow, rough, hungry. You curled your fingers into the fabric at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he responded with a low growl buried deep in his chest. Ghost wasn’t gentle tonight. He wasn’t cruel either. He was something in between; someone who had held tension for hours and now had somewhere to put it.

Your lips met again—hot, hurried—when a sudden burst of static cracked through the cramped space.

Ghost’s walkie-talkie. Still clipped to his vest. “Ghost, do you copy? Where are you?” Captain Price’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and unmistakably irritated.

You froze mid-kiss. Ghost pulled back just enough that you saw the curve of his smirk beneath the lifted edge of his mask—only his mouth visible, lips slightly swollen from you. His eyes glinted with a mix of mischief and challenge.

He unclipped the radio without breaking eye contact, pressing the button just long enough to keep it from auto-responding, then held it out toward you like an offering. Or a dare.

“Come on, doll,” he murmured, voice low and taunting, accent thick enough to curl around every word. “Reply to him. Tell him where we are.”

He angled the walkie closer, brushing your fingers with his as if coaxing you. The bathroom felt even smaller now; like every sound was amplified, like Price might somehow hear the heat still lingering between you and Ghost.

Ghost leaned his forehead against yours, close enough that you felt his breath ghost over your lips. “Go on,” he added, softer this time, almost a whisper. “Make it believable.”

The radio crackled again, impatient.