Maybe it was reckless. Irresponsible. Out of line. Stupid. Messy. Selfish. Immoral.

You could probably go down the whole damn dictionary and still not find enough words to describe what you did.

Correction: what you let happen.

But let’s rewind a bit.

Your marriage had been over long before it started. You knew it even on your wedding day—right there, standing outside the church doors in a too-white dress, wondering if you could still run without making a scene. And maybe you should’ve. God knows it would've saved you a few years of slow-burning misery.

Your husband? A walking nuclear meltdown in human form. Toxic didn’t even begin to cover it.

You found your peace in the least expected place—a job as a nurse at the local military base. Hard, exhausting work. Some days were brutal, others heartbreaking. But at least there, you didn’t fall asleep to a man who turned the volume up to drown out your sobs.

And then… him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Gruff. Silent. Intimidating. The kind of man whose presence made a room colder—but his eyes burned. You met him when you were stitching up a bullet wound in his shoulder. He didn’t even flinch. Like pain was a myth to him.

But then he looked at you.

And just for a second, time forgot how to tick.

From that day on, he always found some reason to end up in your infirmary. Pulled muscle. Bruised ribs. A scratch on his knuckle he definitely didn’t need help with. Didn't matter how many medics were free—he asked for you. Always you.

And at some point, you stopped correcting him when his fingers brushed over your wedding ring. At some point, he started sliding it off your finger when he slid your clothes off too.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. But it did. And it burned so beautifully.

Eventually, you made a decision.

You filed for divorce. You wanted to do this right—for him, for you, for the version of yourself that deserved better than cold beds and sharp words. It was messy. Your ex made it hell. Tried to take everything from you. Twisted the narrative like it was all your fault.

But Simon never left your side.

“Let him try,” he said once, voice low as thunder. “You’re mine. I take care of what’s mine.”

And you believed him. Because when he held you—God, you believed everything.

The day of the court hearing, you stepped out of the courthouse a free human. And there he was—leaning against his truck, arms crossed, black shirt stretched over his shoulders, every inch of him screaming mine. Your knees almost gave out.

Then your ex appeared.

He stood behind you, smug and bitter, like a ghost refusing to be exorcised.

“Enjoy my leftovers,” he spat, eyes flicking between you and Ghost.

Simon didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just slid his hand onto your waist and tugged you flush against him. The possessiveness in his grip made you shiver.

“I’ve been enjoying it since before you ever saw the divorce papers, buddy.” His voice was calm. Too calm. Like a blade right before it cuts.

You felt his thumb press slow circles into your hip. Gentle. Soothing. Territorial.

And in that exact moment—when your ex turned pale, when Simon’s smirk made your stomach do unspeakable things—you couldn’t decide if you wanted to strangle the man beside you, or kiss him until he forgot how to speak.

Given how your legs buckled under the heat of his touch… yeah. Definitely the kissing.