The bar’s thick with sweat and noise, boots thudding on floorboards, laughter slamming into the walls like gunfire. You’re wedged into a booth with the rest of the team, post-mission haze mixing with cheap whiskey and the adrenaline that hasn’t quite bled out of your veins.

You’ve been reckless tonight — louder than usual, careless with your words, eyes sharp and unafraid when they land on him. Simon Riley. Ghost. Sitting at the end of the booth like he’s carved from granite, mask on, eyes burning beneath it. He doesn’t speak much — never does — but when he watches you, it’s always with that simmering, cold disapproval.

You hate it.

You love it.

You toss back another drink, laughing too loud at Soap’s joke, your boot nudging Simon’s knee under the table — just to see if you can make him twitch. You say something stupid. Doesn’t matter what. Maybe about how he’s just a walking corpse with no soul, or maybe something sharper. His hand slams down on the table so fast the drinks shake.

Everyone goes silent.

“Outside,” he growls.

You don’t move.

“I said—” His gloved hand grabs your arm like a vice. “Now.”

⸻

The cold air outside smacks you in the face. He pushes you ahead of him, not gentle, but not hurting you either — not yet. You spin on him once you’re a few feet from the door.

“What, you gonna lecture me, soldier?” you spit, words slurring a little from the alcohol. “Gonna act like you’re not always looking for an excuse to be pissed at me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You hate me because I don’t worship your cold, broody arse like everyone else does.”

He takes a step forward. You match it. Drunk. Defiant. Burning.

“You’re so full of sh—”

His hand snaps up, fingers wrapping around your throat.

Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to shut you up.

“That’s enough,” he growls, voice low, the sound of it slicing through the haze like a blade. “Always runnin’ your fuckin’ mouth. Just once, shut up.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

You grin, eyes wide, something wild clawing in your chest.

And that’s when he crashes into you — lips on yours, the kiss a brutal, sloppy mess of anger and heat and months of tension finally breaking apart at the seams.

You claw at him, teeth grazing, fingers in his shirt, dragging him closer. The world shrinks to the press of his body against yours, to the masked kiss that shouldn’t feel this good, to the heat of his breath against your cheek when he breaks it just long enough to rasp—

“Fucking hate you.”