The club pulsed with bass, lights flashing in dizzying patterns over the sea of bodies moving to the rhythm. Task Force 141 had been in worse situations—hostile territory, gunfire overhead—but blending into this scene? That was a different kind of challenge.

Soap and Ghost sat at the bar, fake drinks in hand, muttering to each other while keeping an eye on their mark. Gaz hovered near the lounge area, blending in with the crowd, relaxed but ready.

Price? Price was supposed to be watching the target.

Instead, his gaze kept drifting—against all reason, against all discipline—to you.

The outfit you wore suited the environment, meant to blend in, to be just another part of the atmosphere. But on you? It was something else entirely. It took every ounce of focus not to stare outright. Every time the flashing lights passed over you, every time you moved—fluid, effortless—he found himself fighting the urge to look too long.

You danced close, playing your role flawlessly, your body angled just right to keep an eye on the target without seeming interested. Price moved with you, hand resting lightly at your waist, doing his best to mirror the scene around him. But hell if it wasn’t a struggle.

He’d faced warzones, ambushes, impossible odds. But this? This was unfair.

The music pounded, the air thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and expensive cologne. He felt the warmth of you just within reach, the way the dim lighting traced along your skin, the curve of your movements pulling his attention no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

Soap’s voice crackled over comms, dragging him back.

"Cap, you good?"

Price exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus.

"Aye. Keep your eyes on the target," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Price clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away.

This mission was going to be hell.