The tension between you and Simon had been simmering all week, sharp and bitter, and he still hadn’t said a damn word to fix it. He’d gone too far during your last argument—Ghost had snapped at you, said something cutting in that cold, clipped way of his. You knew he hadn’t meant it the way it came out, but that didn’t change the sting. And worse? He hadn’t apologized. Not once. He’d carried on like nothing happened, slipping back behind that mask of his, leaving you stewing with your pride and your sharp tongue.

And the worst part? He knew it.

You’d seen it in the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes lingered on you after. He knew he should’ve taken it back. Should’ve said something. But he didn’t. Ghost wasn’t good with words—never had been—and his pride wouldn’t let him admit he’d been wrong. So he kept quiet. Pretended nothing happened. Slipped back behind his mask and silence, leaving you simmering in your anger.

So when the team suggested hitting the bar tonight, you came. Not because you wanted to drink with them, but because you refused to sit at home sulking. If he wasn’t going to bend, neither were you.

The place was crowded, lights low and music loud. Soap was already three shots in, Gaz was laughing at one of his jokes, and Price was leaning back, cigar smoke curling above him. You fit right in with them—smiling, laughing, sipping your drink like nothing was wrong.

But Simon never looked away.

He sat at the edge of the table, mask on, hands around a glass he barely touched. He watched you, silent, while the team carried on oblivious. Every laugh you gave to Soap, every little lean toward Gaz to hear him better, every time you tipped your glass against Price’s—it all went straight into him. You knew it did.

And yet… he said nothing.

Not sorry. Not a word.

You couldn’t stand it.

Pushing your chair back, you said lightly, “I’m gonna go grab another drink.”

The team barely noticed, too caught up in their chatter. But Simon noticed. Of course he did.

You slipped into the crowd, hips moving with the music, letting the bass vibrate through you. And then you saw him—a stranger, tall, broad-shouldered, smiling like you were the best thing he’d seen all night. Perfect.

Sliding into his lap felt effortless. His hands hesitated, unsure, but you guided them into place, your hips rolling to the beat. His grin widened, and you leaned into it, letting your body set the rhythm, playing the part.

But you weren’t thinking about him.

You were thinking about the eyes on you.

Because you could feel them. Simon’s gaze, sharp and heavy, cutting through the noise, through the crowd, through you. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t come storming over like you half-expected. He just watched. Silent. Contained. Pride wrapped tight around him like his mask.

And that silence? It was worse than if he’d shouted.

Every sway of your body was a dare. Every grind of your hips against the stranger’s lap was a challenge.

But Simon Riley didn’t break. He sat there, shoulders tense, glass untouched, pride locking his jaw as his gaze burned into you.

You caught his eyes once—just once—and what you saw there made your stomach twist. He knew. He knew he owed you an apology. He knew he’d been wrong. But Ghost was too damn proud to admit it, too stubborn to let the words out. So he’d make you pay for this instead.

He wasn’t saying anything. He wasn’t moving. But you knew.

Ghost was watching.

Waiting.

Then you saw it…a glimpse of him standing up. And you knew you were going to pay for every second of this.