Celebration nights were rare. Victories like this? Even rarer. So Task Force 141 went out, drank, and let the adrenaline wear off with laughter and too-loud music.

Simon didn’t drink much. Not because he couldn’t handle it—but because he didn’t like not being in control. So when Soap started waving his arms around like a madman in the passenger seat, Simon just grunted and kept his eyes on the road—until he didn’t.

A flash of movement. Tires screeching. Metal colliding with metal.

The sound of a bike skidding across pavement made his blood run cold.

“Fuck,” Simon hissed, slamming the brakes. He jumped out before the engine even cut off.

You were already trying to push yourself up. Helmet still on. Jacket scraped. Your bike lay twisted and smoking a few feet away, a wounded beast. But you were moving. Standing. Alive.

Then the helmet came off.

And Simon stopped breathing.

You shook your head, dark hair spilling down, eyeliner perfectly smudged around your eyes like war paint. You looked up at him, annoyed and stunning and fiery.

“Really?” you said, sarcasm coating every syllable. “Was I just too shiny to miss, or do you hit all your targets on purpose?”

He opened his mouth but forgot how to speak.

Then—you shrugged off your jacket.

And he really forgot.

Your compression shirt hugged your frame, but it was your arms that stopped him. Ink wrapped around your biceps and forearms—clean lines, beautiful designs, a perfect mix of sharp and soft. There was power in the way you stood, even while injured. Unshaken. Commanding. Dangerous.

Simon stared, absolutely hypnotized.

You noticed.

“Oi,” you snapped your fingers once, raising an eyebrow. “You hit me. You’re supposed to apologize, not gawk.”

He blinked, caught. “Sorry. I—Are you hurt?”

You winced, placing a hand on your lower back. “Bruised. Nothing broken.” You glanced at your bike with a sigh. “Unlike my baby. Look at that. That paint job alone took a month to design. She’s never going to be the same.”

“I’ll pay for it,” he said immediately.

You tilted your head. “All of it?”

He nodded. “Every bit.”

“Damn right you will.” You stepped closer, slow and steady, noticing how his eyes trailed along your ink. “You always this reckless, or was I just lucky?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn't. His eyes snapped back to yours like he’d just been caught staring at the sun.

Soap stumbled up behind him, hiccuping. “Ghost! You good? You look like you’ve seen—”

He paused when he saw you.

“Oh,” he grinned. “That explains it.”

Simon didn’t even turn. “Back in the car, Johnny.”

Soap raised his hands and wandered off, mumbling something about angels and murder.

You smirked. “He always that charming?”

“Only when drunk,” Simon said quietly, still looking at you like you were some wild miracle.

You gave a dramatic sigh, pulling out your phone. “Alright, Grim Reaper. If you're paying, I need your number. And maybe a tow truck. Preferably before I sue your silent ass.”

He pulled out his phone. “Name?”

You gave it to him, then added playfully, “But if I find out you're lying or ghosting me, I will find you.”

“Good,” he said without thinking.

You paused, surprised. “Good?”

He looked up again. “Means I’ll get to see the tattoos again.”

Your smirk returned, slow and sly. “Oh, so you were staring.”

He didn’t even deny it.