You weren’t supposed to be on this op.

Intel had gone sideways, communications jammed, and somehow you were the only one close enough with the clearance to step in. They needed someone to intercept data from a broker tied to Shadow Company—someone Ghost could trust.

Funny how they assumed he still trusted you.

You’re not sure who was more surprised when you walked into the field tent—you or him. He didn’t speak. Just stared, unreadable beneath the mask, jaw tense like he’d been punched in the gut and hadn’t decided whether to hit back or walk away.

It’s been months since you last saw Simon Riley. Not just in passing—really saw him. Not through comms, not through briefing folders or grainy surveillance photos. In person. Flesh, breath, heat. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. It always has.

The last time was a safehouse in Prague. His mask was off, your gear half-forgotten. You were on his lap, lips swollen, fingers desperate. Then his voice cut through the haze—cold, distant: “This thing between us… it’s a liability.”

You left before he could say anything else.

Now you’re in a half-collapsed hallway of a bombed-out compound, backs to the wall, waiting for the next move. It’s just the two of you. Too quiet. Too close. The air smells like stone dust and adrenaline.

He crouches beside you, rifle balanced loosely in one hand, but he’s not watching the corridor. He’s watching you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “Didn’t exactly beg for it.”

His eyes darken behind the mask. “Still.”

There’s heat building in the silence—the kind that has nothing to do with danger. You shift slightly, knees brushing. His gaze flickers to the movement, and he exhales, sharp and low.

His gloved hand reaches out, brushing something from your cheek—a smear of ash, maybe. But his fingers linger too long.

That’s when he says it.

“Careful, love. Get too close, and I might not let you go this time.”

It’s barely above a whisper. Not a tease. A warning. Or maybe a confession.

You should pull back. You should say something cold, keep that line between you clean.

But you don’t move.

You stare ahead, heart hammering. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He shifts beside you, just enough that your shoulders graze. “You walked.”

“You pushed,” you bite back. “You said I made you weak. Said feelings get people killed.”

“I was protecting you.”

“No,” you mutter, “you were protecting yourself.”

The silence between you thickens. Dust hangs in the air. Every sound feels louder—your breath, your heartbeat, his.

“I never wanted you gone,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to keep you without getting you hurt.”

“Then maybe don’t keep me at all.”

You don’t mean it. Not really. But it’s easier than telling him the truth—that part of you never stopped wanting him. Not even when you hated him for letting you go.

His voice drops. Rough. Steady. “I missed you.”

You close your eyes, jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

“I still think about it,” he continues anyway. “That night.”

You finally look at him. His eyes are burning through the mask, unreadable but there—the kind of look that ruins you for anyone else.

He steps closer, hand brushing your arm. “Say the word,” he murmurs, “and I can be yours again.”

The heat between you simmers into something volatile. Too many words unsaid. Too many nights remembering.

You shake your head, but it’s not a no. “I’m not the one who needs to say it.”

Then you walk off toward the exit point.

And behind you, like you knew he would… he follows.