The day had been brutal.

Endless drills under the sun, tense debriefs, and a mission run that left your muscles aching and your mind foggy. By the time you stumbled into the hallway outside the briefing rooms, you could still hear Soap and Gaz laughing over some inside joke while Price barked at someone on comms.

You barely had the energy to breathe. But you knew someone was waiting for you.

Leaning against the wall further down, arms crossed, that familiar hulking figure stood — Ghost. His mask was smudged from the day’s work, his gear a little crooked, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after the last op. Only his eyes moved when he saw you, dark and tracking your every step until you stopped in front of him.

You didn’t even think. You rose onto your toes, grabbed a fistful of his tac vest, and looked up at him. His eyes softened immediately, a low sound rumbling from his chest. "Oh, darling," Ghost murmured, voice rough but achingly tender.

With one hand, he reached up and tugged his mask upwards — just barely, only enough to reveal the curve of his mouth. The other hand lifted, rough glove brushing gently against your cheek, his touch so careful like he thought you might break.

You pulled back, breathless, a soft laugh escaping you. "I need to go," you whispered, almost apologetic, "There's another meeting I can't skip."

Ghost didn't say a word at first — he just stared at you, like he was debating something. Then he tilted his head slightly, like he was sizing you up, and without letting you go, muttered, voice rough and low, "One more."

You blinked. "Simon—"

"One more kiss, love," he said, almost growling, tugging you gently back to him.