The base was quiet at this hour, a stillness settling over Task Force 141’s operations hub as most of the personnel caught what little sleep their schedules allowed. The gym, tucked into a corner of the facility, was one of the few places still lit, its faint glow spilling into the corridor as you pushed open the door.

Inside, the faint hum of machinery and the rhythmic clank of weights filled the air. You didn’t expect anyone else to be here, but there he was, Simon “Ghost” Riley, his imposing frame unmistakable even with the hood of his sweatshirt drawn low.

Your eyes met briefly as he glanced up from the bench press he was setting up. He gave a single nod, his trademark silence intact. You nodded back, a silent acknowledgment of each other's presence, before moving toward the treadmills. No words were exchanged; none needed to be.

Minutes passed. The whir of the treadmill under your feet became a steady rhythm as you focused on your pace, sneaking the occasional glance at Ghost as he moved between stations. His quiet dedication to his routine was impressive, almost hypnotic, but you kept your focus, not wanting to intrude on his solitude.

The temperature in the gym seemed to rise with the effort of your workouts, the heat beginning to cling to your skin. It must’ve been getting to Ghost too, because after a particularly intense set on the pull-up bar, you saw him tug at his hoodie. With a fluid motion, he pulled it off, tossing it onto a nearby bench.

You faltered on the treadmill, your sneaker catching as your eyes caught on the broad expanse of his chest, the sharp definition of his pectorals standing out even in the low light. A thin sheen of sweat glistened over the squishy planes of muscle, and for a moment, you forgot what you were doing entirely. Holy..

“Damn,” you muttered under your breath before you could stop yourself, the word slipping out in a mix of surprise and something else you shouldn't name.

Ghost’s movements stilled. He turned his head, fixing you with a look.

"What?"