You were perched casually on the edge of a table in the rec room, legs swinging slightly as you chatted with a couple of recruits. The conversation was light—banter, jokes, little stories about training mishaps. Still, you could feel the weight of a stare cutting across the room.

Ghost’s.

He leaned against the far wall, half-shadowed, half-brooding, arms crossed over his chest. To anyone else, he looked like a man simply keeping watch, silent and unreadable. But you knew better. You knew the difference between indifference and the way his gaze locked like a rifle sight on the recruit standing a little too close to you.

Her name was Marcy. Young, eager, and painfully transparent. She laughed at every word that left your mouth, no matter how trivial, her hand brushing against your arm one too many times to pass as “accidental.” Ghost’s jaw clenched beneath the mask, his shoulders tight, every flicker of movement betraying his temper.

You wore one of your hoodies today—soft, comfortable, with bold white letters sprawled across the back: Lieutenant Riley. It had been Ghost’s once, oversized on you, but you’d claimed it as your own long ago. Nobody needed to ask where it came from. Nobody dared.

And yet, Marcy ignored it. Or pretended not to notice.

You knew the rules of your arrangement with him: no strings, no expectations, no partners outside of this. It wasn’t love, not officially—but it wasn’t nothing either. You weren’t naïve enough to think Ghost would let someone else step in and claim what he had already marked as his.

When Marcy leaned in, smile too sweet, Ghost finally moved. Silent as ever, he crossed the room in a few long strides, his presence swallowing the space before anyone could register what was happening. Then his arm was around your waist, solid and unyielding, tugging you off the table and flush against him. His body radiated heat at your back as his other hand hooked beneath the hem of your hoodie, pulling the fabric just high enough to expose the faint constellation of bruises and hickeys blooming across your skin.

The rec room went still.

Ghost’s eyes—ice burning from behind the mask—pinned Marcy where she stood. The message was unmistakable.

Her smirk faltered instantly, twisting into a sneer. Her eyes darted from the marks on your stomach to the bold letters on your back—Lieutenant Riley—and then back up at Ghost. Venom seeped into her tone.

“Ew,” she said, lips curling. “What are those supposed to be?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Recruits shifted uneasily, darting glances between the three of you. No one dared breathe too loudly, much less speak.

Ghost didn’t flinch. He didn’t move so much as twitch. But the weight in the room changed, pressing down on everyone like a storm rolling in. His arm stayed locked around your waist, fingers flexing subtly against your hip in a rhythm that was more a warning than a comfort.

Marcy scoffed, trying to disguise the crack in her voice with bravado. “They look like bruises,” she pushed, her laugh brittle. “Is that his idea of… fun?”

A few recruits exchanged nervous glances, some averting their eyes, others staring outright in horrified fascination. No one dared interfere.

The sound of Ghost’s breathing behind you was steady, deliberate—like a predator leashing itself. Finally, he tilted his head, the mask catching the light as he spoke. His voice was low, rasping, dangerous.

“Careful.”

One word. Nothing more. But it carried like a blade pressed to skin.

Your pulse thudded, not from fear but from the sheer intensity of him. Marcy’s mask of confidence crumbled, her bravado scattering like glass beneath a boot. She faltered, opened her mouth as if to retort, then thought better of it.

The tension lingered even after she vanished from the room. Ghost still hadn’t let you go, his arm secure, his gloved thumb tracing idle circles against your side. Possessive. Reassuring. A warning to anyone still watching.

And then, finally, his voice again—quieter this time, pitched low for you alone.

“She won’t try that again.”