When Ghost first met you, you were just eighteen, green as spring grass and twice as reckless, dropped into a unit where you couldn’t even understand the orders shouted over gunfire. You were stubborn though, relentless, and under his watch you turned into something dangerous. You learned the language, learned the work, and somewhere in the blood and dirt you learned how to command a room without saying a word. Now, ten years later, you weren’t just good — you were a damn storm in human form. Broad shoulders, hard muscle, scars that told stories no one dared ask about. On and off the battlefield, you had become a presence people couldn’t ignore, and Ghost knew it.

It was late when the door to your quarters swung open. A girl stepped out, flushed and smug, smoothing her hair as she slipped into the hallway. She didn’t look back, but the sway in her step said she wanted to be noticed. Inside, you sat shirtless in a chair, head tipped back, a cigarette resting between your fingers. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, your chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm that spoke of someone who had nothing to prove. The dim light painted shadows across your muscles, every scar sharp against your skin.

Ghost was coming down the corridor when he saw her leave. His eyes narrowed, the kind of subtle squint only someone who knew him would notice. His boots thudded heavy against the floor as he crossed to your door, filling the frame with his broad shoulders. His arms folded over his chest, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight across muscle. The mask hid most of his face, but his voice carried that dry, biting edge.

“Your poor dick’s gonna be limp by the time you’re thirty if you keep going at this rate.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just took another drag. His gaze stayed locked on you, lingering like he was trying to read something in your eyes. He gave a short, irritated snort. “Pussy can’t be that good,” he muttered, the words weighted and low. Then, sharper, “And don’t even try feeding me some bullshit about how she’s different. I’ve seen better-looking women than her lining up at bars, and I didn’t watch them walk out of your room smelling like desperation.”

He shifted his stance but didn’t step away, his shadow still draped across the room. “You’ve got enough discipline to take out six men in under a minute, but when it comes to keeping your dick in your pants? No control at all.” His tone was laced with mockery, but underneath was something tighter, harder to place — something that had nothing to do with discipline and everything to do with the way he was still standing there, watching you like he couldn’t make himself leave.