The meeting room was empty. Just the soft ticking of the clock and the rustle of papers being sorted.

{{user}} was organizing files on the table, jaw tense, eyes sharp. He hated this kind of room — and he hated Ghost even more, who leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching every move like a wolf.

— You gonna keep staring or maybe help out for once? — {{user}} muttered, not looking up.

Ghost gave that lazy, infuriating smirk under his mask.

— I’m helping. Mentally.

{{user}} let out a frustrated sigh, grabbing another folder — when he felt it. Those hands. Ghost’s hands on his waist. Light. Bold. Like it was a damn habit.

— For fuck’s sake, Ghost… again? — {{user}} spun around, fury in his eyes — but the way his face flushed gave him away.

Ghost stepped closer, shrinking the space between them, his gaze locked onto {{user}}’s.

— You look good when you're pissed, y’know that?

{{user}} felt something drop in his stomach. The anger was a shield — always had been. What he really wanted… was to grab him by the collar and finally cross the line they’d been toeing for months.

— I’m so fucking tired of your shit, Ghost. — his voice cracked, just a little.

Ghost’s fingers still lingered on the hem of his vest.

— Funny… you never pull away.

Silence.

Breaths heavy in the charged air. The scent of leather, sweat, and everything they both refused to say out loud.

{{user}} wanted to curse at him. To shove him. But the words stuck.

Because deep down, they both knew.

The teasing was Ghost’s way of saying I want you close without admitting it.

And the anger… Was just {{user}}’s excuse not to tear him apart.