The beach house was too perfect.

Too bright. Too open. All glass walls and clean lines and shared space. A “mandatory vacation,” Price called it. A few weeks to cool off after a messy six-month op. Secluded coast. Private beach. Supposed to be rest and recovery.

You weren’t supposed to fall in love.

And definitely not with him.

Ghost wasn’t made for vacation. He didn’t belong in this kind of softness. He wore black in the blazing sun, stayed masked when everyone else stripped down to swim trunks and tank tops. He kept to the edges, quiet, watchful, deliberate.

So when he started meeting your eyes across the firepit, it felt like being seen for the first time. Too clearly. Too deeply.

That first night, it was nothing, just the two of you on the upstairs balcony after everyone else passed out drunk. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. But when he passed you his lighter, fingers brushing yours, something shifted.

Later, a message showed up on your phone from an unknown number:

“You left your lighter. Balcony.”

He still hadn’t said a word. But somehow, it was louder than anything else.

It became a game.

Not a safe one. Not a fair one. If you two ever get caught, it's over.

Fake names on Signal. Locked phones. Stolen glances across the deck. Sneaking out once the team passed out. Meeting behind the dunes, or in the boathouse that smelled like salt and sun-bleached wood. You were both trained for stealth, it helped.

But not enough.

He kissed like a man starved for softness. Held you like you were something fragile, like he didn’t know how to be careful, but tried anyway. The mask stayed on. Always. Except once.

One humid night, moonlight slanting through the slats of the boathouse roof, he tugged it halfway up and kissed you like it had been eating him alive not to.

“You’re not afraid?” he murmured against your neck, voice hoarse. You should’ve said yes.

But you didn’t, Because being afraid hadn’t stopped you yet.

By the third week, the cracks started to show.

Price watched you too long when you spoke. When you passed Ghost a beer at dinner, his eyebrow rose. When you laughed at one of Ghost’s rare, dry jokes, the air went still.

“You and Ghost’ve been talkin’ more,” Price said one night over grilled fish and beers, eyes sharp under the brim of his cap.

You shrugged. “He’s not that hard to talk to, sir.” He didn’t press. But he didn’t stop watching, either.

Soap almost caught you sneaking back in at dawn, barefoot, hoodie inside out. You lied, said you couldn’t sleep. He didn’t look convinced.

Gaz joked about Ghost being weirdly protective of you. Said it with a grin, but his eyes lingered a little too long.

Ghost stopped touching you during the day. Stopped meeting your eyes. Like distance could protect you. Like silence was a shield.

But at night, he still came.

Quiet footsteps. Door easing shut. Your name in the dark, whispered like a confession. Under covers. Under silence. Hands mapping each other like memory, like a final prayer.

One night, after, he held you tighter than usual. Breath hot at your collarbone.

“We can’t keep this up,” he said, forehead pressed to yours. You could feel the fear in him. Not just the fear of being caught, but of what it would mean not to have this anymore. Not to have you.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gentle. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he whispered, voice raw. “Every night, I wonder if this is the one that costs us everything.”

You opened your mouth to answer —

The door creaked.

Not like the wind. Not like the old wood settling. It was slow. Deliberate.

You froze. Your stomach dropped.

Ghost pulled back, eyes wide under the half-removed mask. He turned toward the sound, and you followed his gaze.

Captain John Price stood in the doorway. He didn't scream, he didn't shout out orders. He just stood there.

“Sir—” you started, voice thin, trembling.

“Don’t,” Price said. Quiet. Sharp. A razor’s edge in one word. Now what?