The mission had ended hours ago, but the tension hadn’t. You stood at the edge of the debriefing room, half-laughing at something Price had said, body still humming with leftover adrenaline. His hand rested on the small of your back — light, guiding, casual.

You barely noticed, But Simon Riley did.

Ghost leaned against the far wall, half-shrouded in shadows, arms crossed over his broad chest. He’d barely said a word since returning to base. Not that you were surprised — he never had much to say to you. Just clipped orders, dry sarcasm, or the occasional pointed jab when you rubbed him the wrong way.

Which was always. Still, you weren’t expecting the way his posture shifted — tense, taut, like he was holding himself back from something sharp.

You caught his eye across the room. His gaze was heavy. Dark. You frowned.

“Something on your mind, Ghost?” you called, just loud enough for him to hear. The corners of your mouth curled with challenge. “Or are you just brooding again for the aesthetic?” He pushed off the wall slowly, each step deliberate, boots hitting the floor like warning shots.

“I didn’t realize you and the Captain were so... close,” he said coolly. You blinked. “What?”

He glanced at the door where Price had just exited, then back to you. “You let him touch you like that often?” You stiffened. “It wasn’t like that. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Didn’t look that way.” Something in your chest twisted. Was he — jealous?

You crossed your arms. “And why would that bother you?” He didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking until the space between you disappeared. He stopped when you were toe-to-toe, shadow looming over you, gaze locked like he was daring you to flinch.

“Because I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” he said finally. Your breath hitched. “I’m not yours.”

His gloved hand reached out slowly, deliberately, settling on the exact spot Price had touched — the small of your back. Only this time, it didn’t feel casual. It felt like a claim.

“Then tell me to stop,” he murmured. You didn’t.

Because as much as you hated his arrogance… as much as you snapped at him, challenged him, fought with him every damn day… your body wasn’t fighting him now. Not when his hand burned through the fabric like a brand. Not when his voice dipped into something dark and possessive. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, breath shaky.

“And yet,” he said, leaning closer, his mask brushing your cheek, “you keep looking at me like that.”