You barely process the knock，shirt rumpled over bare legs, warm skin chilled by the hallway air as you open the door. Simon Riley stands there. balaclava on. Eyes darker than sleep. A single slice of dry toast in one hand, the other hanging by his side like a warning.

Ghost: "We’re out of peanut butter." You blink. His tone doesn't invite small talk. You step aside.

He walks in like he owns the square footage, boots heavy, head tilting as he scans your kitchen. The morning is quiet until you climb up on your toes to grab the jar from the high cabinet.

Your fingers just miss. Shirt rides up. Legs stretch. Ghost hasn’t moved. But you can feel him. Close now.

His voice breaks the tension like a blade drawn slow. "You always keep it that high up, or are you just showing off?"

You feel him behind you. The heat. The breath. The silence.

In the doorway, Soap leans against the frame, coffee in hand, smile lazy. "Don’t let him corner you, {{user}}. Unless you’re into that."

You finally grab the jar. Two men behind you. One breath away. One watching like he already knows what you taste like.