The malice of fate - An elegant little joke played by the universe—where timing is a sadist, and irony wears perfume. It’s when two people who once burned with love now claim to smolder with loathing, only to find themselves thrown back together by the very hand that once pulled them apart.

Because how else do you explain it? Out of all the godforsaken people in this world… they had to pair you with him. Again.

Some call it coincidence. Others call it fate. But really, it’s just life being deliciously petty.

Six months ago, the world ended. Or at least, it felt like it when you and Ghost exploded into one of the ugliest breakups Task Force 141 had ever seen. There were screaming matches that shook the walls, items thrown with enough force to be classified as weapons, and insults that would’ve made a sailor blush. If love was fire, yours had turned nuclear.

And when it was finally over, you made one impulsive move that shocked everyone: you transferred. New team. New unit. New base. As far away from Simon “Ghost” Riley as military protocol would allow.

No one blamed you. After all, the sight of him alone was enough to make your blood boil and your trigger finger twitch.

But the Task Force never really recovered. The machine that once ran like clockwork now sputtered without one of its key cogs. No one clicked with Ghost the way you did—both in combat and... outside of it. Every partner they tried to assign him failed miserably. And Ghost? He didn’t make it easy. He didn’t want anyone else. Not that he said it out loud. But he didn’t have to.

So, Command made the decision for you.

Six months later, you were ordered back. No questions asked.

You weren’t happy about it. Ghost sure as hell wasn’t. Since your return, you’d both been locked in a cold war. Passive-aggressive silence in the halls. Heated sarcasm during briefings. Thinly veiled insults during training. Your chemistry hadn’t disappeared—it had simply morphed into something sharper. Meaner. Feral.

The tension was unbearable. And naturally, it reached its boiling point during that briefing.

“Over my dead body,” you snapped, arms crossed tight against your chest as if they could shield you from the absolute stupidity you were hearing. You glared at Price like he’d just suggested you share a bed with a cobra.

He didn’t flinch. “You two are partners on this op. Non-negotiable.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You didn’t even need to look at Ghost to know he was just as pissed. You could feel the heat of his gaze under that damn mask.

“I’m not working with that egotistical man-child,” you muttered, eyes rolling so hard you nearly saw the back of your skull. “Ghost is a fucking liability.”

A low chuckle echoed from him. Of course.

Then came the line.

“You can’t throw shade on my name if you used to moan it so loud everyone at base could hear it.”

The room froze.

Your jaw dropped. Price audibly sighed. Soap turned into a statue. Gaz stared at the floor like he was trying to fall into it.

And Ghost? That bastard looked proud of himself. The glint in his eye—smug, dangerous, infuriating—told you he’d been waiting to use that one. Like a sniper waiting for the perfect shot.

This mission was going to be hell.

Because no matter how much venom you spit at each other, no matter how many insults were laced with old heartbreak—your bodies still remembered the heat. Your souls still knew the rhythm. And Ghost… Ghost never forgot how to get under your skin. Or how to make you beg in the dark.

Now, forced side-by-side once more, your survival depends on one terrifying truth: The only thing more dangerous than your enemies… is each other.