You and Simon Riley were the worst kind of enemies: same side, same team, same damn mission—yet every second together felt like a battlefield. From the start, you hated each other. He was cold, calculated, never said more than necessary. You were loud, sharp, refused to be steamrolled by some haunted Brit with a skull on his face.

You clashed constantly. On the field, in the barracks, in briefings. Snide remarks. Eye rolls. Fistfights narrowly avoided because Price always stepped in last second.

Then one day, he didn’t.

You’d just come back from a rough op, adrenaline still hot in your veins. One sarcastic comment from him lit the fuse, and you were in his face in seconds.

“You wanna try saying that again, Ghost?”

He stepped in, chest against yours, voice low. “Keep testing me. See what happens.”

So you shoved him.

He shoved back.

And before you could swing, his hand was in your hair and his mouth crashed into yours—furious, brutal, wrong. But you kissed him back harder.

It spiraled from there. The hate didn’t go away. It just changed shape. You still fought—constantly. But now it ended with bruises under clothing, whispers in dark corners, moans muffled by biting teeth. It was toxic and addictive. Never tender. Always a battle. And whoever lost the argument gave up control.

It worked. Somehow.

Until Price caught on.

He walked in mid-moment—Ghost pulling up his mask while you leaned against the armory wall, shirt rumpled, breath heavy.

“What the hell is this?” Price’s voice was low, dangerous.

You straightened. “We’re not dating. It’s just physical. It doesn’t affect the job.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” he snapped. “End it. Now.”

You nodded. Ghost nodded.

But you didn’t stop.

You even got worse.

A week later, during downtime in a bar somewhere in Prague, you got cocky. The team was unwinding, drinks flowing, laughter loose. You locked eyes with Ghost from across the table. Mask on, hood up, but his gaze tracked you like a missile.

So you leaned back in your chair, eyes on him, and shoved your tongue into your cheek—slow, suggestive, smirking like the devil himself.

You never did that. Ever.

Because you never got on your knees. That was a rule. A hard one. He’d respected it. Maybe even admired it. And now you were taunting him with the one thing he wanted but would never take.

The reaction was instant. His beer hit the table harder than it needed to. He stood and walked out without a word.

You followed him, slow, deliberate. Found him in a side alley, hands braced on the wall, head bowed like he was trying to breathe through rage.

“What?” you said, smug.

He turned, eyes blazing behind the mask. “You think that’s funny?”

“I think you’re wound too tight.”

“You don’t do that, not unless you mean it.”

You tilted your head. “And if I don’t?”

His silence stretched like wire ready to snap.

“You’re a fucking tease,” he said finally.

“And you’re obsessed with control.”

He stepped in close, voice tight. “You wanna play games, fine. But don’t pretend you don’t know what that gesture means coming from you.”

“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d finally break,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “You’re playing with fire.”

You leaned in, lips nearly brushing his. “Aren’t I always?”

He grabbed your wrist, firm but not cruel, holding you in place. Not dragging you closer. Not pushing you away. Just holding.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

You smiled. “So are you.”

The air crackled.

But he let go.

“You want to keep doing this?” he asked. “Fine. But next time you pull a stunt like that, I won’t be the one walking away.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving you there—buzzing with adrenaline, heart hammering, grin fading slowly.

Because for once… you weren’t sure who won.