You’ve had Woods in your sights more times than you can count. Different flags, different causes—but always the same battlefield. He fights like fire, brutal and relentless. You fight like ice, sharp and calculated. Every mission, you’re trying to outmaneuver him. Sometimes, you do.

Sometimes… he lets you.

The rendezvous spot is always neutral ground: empty safehouses, quiet motels in forgotten towns, places soaked in shadows and secrets. No ranks here. No guns. Just breath and bruised pride and the electric pull that neither of you can name.

---

Tonight, he’s already waiting. Shirt half-unbuttoned, knuckles bruised. You close the door behind you without a word. The silence stretches—thick, tense—before you finally break it.

“Should’ve taken the shot today.”

He smirks. “You didn’t either.”

Your lips crash together like a storm—months of violence and tension bleeding into something softer, something needful. He touches you like he hates how much he wants to, like he’s memorizing you in case the next meeting is your last.

Later, with sweat cooling and your limbs tangled in faded sheets, he strokes your hair like he has no right to. You lie on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“This is wrong,” you whisper.

He sighs, fingers tracing slow circles on your back. “I know. But it’s the only thing that feels right anymore.”

You don’t talk about what happens if command ever finds out. You don’t talk about tomorrow. But for now, in this stolen moment far from the battlefield, Frank Woods isn’t your enemy.

He’s your secret comfort.

And somehow, that’s more dangerous than war.