The safehouse was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the heavy tread of boots on hardwood.

Ghost had {{user}} bent over the kitchen table before anyone could even finish their second cup of tea. One massive gloved hand pinned both wrists at the small of {{user}}’s back, the other fisted tight in hair, keeping tear-streaked cheek pressed to the cool wood.

“Enough,” Ghost growled, voice low and final. “You’ve been a fucking menace all week. Today it stops.”

Soap circled the table slowly, arms crossed, eyes dark. “Ye thought ye could keep at it, did ye? Nickin’ Price’s cigars, stashin’ Gaz’s gear, and now ye’ve got the gall to mouth off when we told ye to stay put?”

Gaz leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching with a sharp, unimpressed stare. “We let you run wild because we love the fire in you. Doesn’t mean we’ll let you burn the whole team down.”

Price stood at the head of the table, cigar unlit between his teeth, voice calm but carrying that unmistakable captain’s edge. “You want attention, sweetheart? You’ve got it. All four of us. No more games. No more hiding behind that pretty little attitude.”