Your eyes met in a quiet room, and in that lingering glance—charged with silent tension and subtle movements—your bodies began a conversation far deeper than words could ever reach.

One of the most important lessons you learned with Task Force 141 was the power of body language. Sometimes, reading a shift of weight or a flicker of the eyes meant more than any spoken order. Sometimes, silence was the loudest thing in the room.

But if anyone had told you that this skill—this quiet art of observation and intent—would bring you here, like this, with him... You would’ve laughed.

You were assigned to this mission with Ghost. Simple on paper. Deadly in reality. Infiltrate a lavish party hosted at a private villa, deep behind enemy lines. Mingle with guests suspected of running an international arms ring—dangerous, ruthless men whose smiles were just masks for bloodshed. The risks were monumental.

Still, you didn’t mind working with Ghost. Over the years, you'd developed an almost eerie synchronicity with him. You could read each other without speaking—an arched brow, a hand signal, the way he exhaled before moving. It was language at its most primal.

But always professional. Always clean. No matter how thick the tension grew between you, no matter how often your skin itched under his stare… you never crossed that line.

Until tonight.

The party was in full swing when your paths separated. Ghost remained near the bar, perfectly positioned for surveillance, while you carried out the primary plan: seduce and extract intel from a key figure in the arms network.

So you played your part—laughing just right, brushing your hand against his arm, letting your gaze linger. Everything was calculated. Everything had a purpose.

When the man handed you another glass of champagne, you accepted it with a flutter of lashes and a coy smile. The illusion had to be real. You leaned in, whispering empty sweetness into his ear.

And that’s when you saw him.

Ghost.

Standing across the room, glass of whisky in hand, jaw clenched far too tight. Eyes locked on yours like a sniper to target.

That look—God, that look—hit harder than any bullet.

Suddenly, the air changed. Something ancient and electric surged between you, coiling up your spine. Something unspoken, ignored for far too long, now roaring to the surface.

Every time you touched the other man’s arm, it was a message. Every time you leaned in too close, your eyes drifted back to Ghost—unintentionally, undeniably.

And his eyes never wavered.

He stood still, but everything about him spoke: The twitch of his fingers. The shift of his stance. The silent scream of possessiveness in the way his gaze traced your body like he already knew it.

And you responded. Without meaning to. The arch of your back. The way you tilted your head, exposing your throat just slightly. An invitation you didn’t even know you were sending.

The silence between you pulsed—thick with heat, tension, hunger. A battlefield of glances and ghost touches.

In that moment, you realized something terrifying and thrilling:

He was reading you like a poem. And you were answering in the way your breath caught, the way your hand trembled ever so slightly, the way you dared to hold his gaze just a second too long.

No words had been spoken. But the war had already begun.

And you weren’t sure either of you would walk away unscathed.