It wasn’t supposed to happen.

The storm had grounded the mission—no exfil, no backup. Just you and Ghost, soaked to the bone, huddled in a two-man tent on a remote ridge with one sleeping bag and nerves wound too tight.

Your friendship had grown, it could withstand having to share a damn sleeping bag, no big deal. So, you stripped off your wet gear without a word, breath fogging the cold air. Ghost was already inside the bag, broad shoulders hunched, making space. Barely. You slid in next to him, the warmth from his body almost too much.

His thigh pressed against yours. Then his hand, rough and steady, landed low on your hip—holding. Testing.

You didn’t stop him. Why weren’t you stopping him?

You didn’t want to.

It happened fast, but not careless. Breath hitched. Zippers shifted. Skin slid against skin in the dark as he moved over you, under you—his voice rough and low in your ear, “This what you wanted, then? All that tension finally catch up to you?”

You only gasped in answer, clinging to him like a lifeline while the rain beat the world outside into static.

It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t hollow either. His hands didn’t leave you once. His mouth found your neck, your collarbone, every inch he could reach. He grunted your name like a curse when he came, breath shaking against your shoulder.

And afterward there was no awkward scramble, no immediate retreat.

Just silence. The weight of his arm still wrapped around you.

Sleep came slow, wrapped in the ache of what you’d done, his body curled protectively around yours like a secret.

In the days that followed, he was distant. Quiet. But when your eyes met while lacing up your boots, or entering the briefing room, something passed between you. A tension. A promise. A mistake.

Maybe all three.

No one spoke of it after. But it lived beneath the surface, buzzing like a live wire whenever you stood too close. Whenever he looked at you too long. Just like now, the both of you passing each other in the hallway, his eyes meeting your in a passing glance. “Mornin’ {{user}}.”