Ever heard of that kind of duo who’d rather chew glass than admit they’re obsessed with each other?

Yeah. That’s you and him.

Walking disasters in denial. Masters of the jealous game. Champions of pretending not to care while burning each other alive with every sideways glance. You’ll laugh a little too hard at someone else’s joke, he’ll turn the charm up to max just to watch your eye twitch. And let’s be real—you both enjoy it way too much.

It’s petty. It’s toxic. It’s delicious.

You two thrive on tension like it’s oxygen. Peace was never part of the deal. God forbid one of you actually makes the first move—where’s the fun in that?

And then there’s Soap—your collective bad decision enabler. The bastard who thought it would be “healthy” to enforce a rule: no drills on weekends. No missions. No guns. Just soldiers pretending to be normal people.

Which was, in hindsight, the worst idea imaginable.

Because one fateful Friday night, instead of staying in the mess hall with whiskey and regret, someone - yep, Soap - suggested a club. Loud music. Strong drinks. Crowded bodies. Flashing lights.

And, as it turned out, the perfect setting for absolute chaos with your name and Ghost’s scribbled across it in red ink.

The two of you? Equal parts dynamite and short fuse.

You were both too proud to admit the obvious, too stubborn to back down. But if anyone wore the crown in the art of provocation—it was him. That cold-eyed bastard with the shit-eating smirk who somehow knew exactly which buttons to push and loved pushing them.

Like now.

After a few drinks, he was on the dancefloor.

Ghost. The same man who didn’t smile unless it was that dangerous, smug curl of the lip that usually came right before ruining your mood. The same Ghost who hated crowds and music that wasn’t tactical radio static.

But tonight? He was moving. Loosely. Casually. And absolutely not alone.

Some woman with a too-short dress and too-confident smile had draped herself across him. And his hands? Far too familiar on her hips. His grip? Possessive.

But what really lit the fuse?

He didn’t stop looking at you. Not even once.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

That bastard knew exactly what he was doing. You saw it in his eyes. You saw it in that cocky, deliberate smirk meant just for you. Your fists clenched under the table. Your teeth dug into your cheek.

Soap’s voice cut through the noise from across the table. “{{user}}, don’t.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the heat rising under your skin. The burn of Ghost’s eyes on yours. The echo of her laugh as she pressed closer to him.

“{{user}}, seriously—don’t do it.”

It wasn’t a warning. It was a prayer.

But you were already moving.

You stood. Slow. Smooth. That familiar fire curling behind your ribcage. The music surged and the crowd parted like the damn Red Sea. But you didn’t walk toward Ghost. Oh no. That would be too easy. That’s exactly what he expected. What he wanted.

And you weren’t giving him the satisfaction.

“Wanna dance?” you asked some random guy on the edge of the crowd. He barely managed to nod before you pulled him into the center of the floor—strategically placed for maximum visibility.

Your back to Ghost. Your body close to someone else. Smiling like you weren’t dying to shove a chair through Simon’s smug, smirking skull.

You felt his eyes. You saw the flick of his jaw when your partner’s hands slipped around your waist. The twitch of his fingers. The heat rising in the room that had nothing to do with the music.

This wasn’t flirting anymore.

This was war. And you weren’t planning on losing.