Ten years ago, when you were an eighteen-year-old private fresh off the transport, barely able to string together “yes, sir” in broken English, Ghost had spotted something in you, raw potential wrapped in wide-eyed confusion. He took you under his wing, drilled discipline into you, taught you the language with curt phrases and sharper glares, turned the scrawny kid into a soldier. Now, at twenty-eight, you fill out the fatigues like they were tailored, shoulders broad, jaw sharp, eyes carrying the weight of missions and the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants.

Ghost, fifteen years your senior, still wears the skull mask in the field, but in private moments, the lines around his eyes betray the years, the experience, the quiet authority that drew you to him in the first place. The two of you crossed a line last night, tangled in his quarters, bodies pressed close, breath hot and desperate, a release of tension built over a decade of stolen glances and unspoken need.

You step into his office, the door clicking shut behind you. The room smells of gun oil and black coffee, papers strewn across the desk, a single lamp casting long shadows. Ghost sits behind it, mask off, his short-cropped hair flecked with gray, scars crisscrossing his forearms where the sleeves are rolled up. He looks up, dark eyes locking onto yours, and his jaw tightens. He leans back in the chair, fingers drumming once on the desk before he speaks, voice low, deliberate. “From now on our relationship, it’s- it’s a strictly, professional, lieutenant recruit-”

You don’t let him finish. You cross the room in three strides, lean over the desk, and crash your mouth against his. The kiss is hungry, tongue sliding past his lips, tasting coffee and the faint burn of whiskey. Ghost freezes for half a second, then a soft, involuntary moan rumbles in his throat. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the muscle through your shirt, pulling you closer as he kisses back, hard, possessive, the chair creaking under his weight. His stubble scrapes your skin, the heat of him overwhelming, the scent of sweat and leather filling your lungs.

But then he jerks away, hands dropping from your waist like he’s been burned. His chest heaves, eyes wide, a flush creeping up his neck. “Greyson, no!” he says, voice deep, flustered, cracking with the effort to regain control. He stands, pushing the chair back, one hand raking through his hair as he turns away, shoulders tense. The room feels smaller, the air thick with the echo of that kiss, his breathing ragged. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles white, not looking at you, but you can see the war in him, the lieutenant trying to bury the man who just moaned into your mouth.