Ghost had been there from the very beginning — a broad, silent shadow with the weight of years on his shoulders, and you, a skinny eighteen-year-old omega who didn’t speak a word of English, trailing after him like a lost pup. You’d been useless in those first months, fumbling through hand signals, barely able to keep your rifle steady, eyes darting to him for every cue. Ghost didn’t coddle. He barked orders in a voice you couldn’t understand but somehow obeyed. He made you run until your legs gave out, shoved you into cover when you froze, and dragged you out of fire more times than you could count. Somewhere along the way, the foreign words sank in, the muscles came, the scars came, and the wide-eyed omega he’d picked up turned into a man who could stand shoulder to shoulder with him.

Still, no amount of time could strip the strange bond that had formed. You’d call it a bromance. He’d grunt at the word, like it wasn’t quite wrong but wasn’t honest either. Ten years of skirting that line, brushing too close, never crossing it — until you finally did. And once you had, nothing really went back to normal.

This morning was quiet, the base still half-asleep. The common room smelled faintly of brewed coffee and the sizzle of something frying. You wandered in wearing a hoodie backwards, the loose front pouch cradling a small stray cat you’d no doubt smuggled in from outside. Its little head peeked out beneath your chin, eyes half-lidded as it purred so loudly you could feel the vibrations against your chest. Your hair was a mess, pants hung loose on your hips, and your scent — relaxed, warm, unguarded — filled the air.

Ghost stood at the stove in a black fitted t-shirt, muscles shifting under the fabric as he worked the spatula over a pan. The second he looked up, his whole body went still. His gaze locked on you, hoodie, kitten, that scent curling like a hook in the back of his throat. Every alpha instinct in him snapped awake, hot and overwhelming. His pulse kicked up, his jaw clenched, and a single, unhelpful thought pounded in his skull: Make babies with this omega. Right now.

You shuffled closer, eyes half-closed from sleep. “What’s for breakfast?”

He forced his voice out evenly, though it came low and rough. “Eggs.”

The word should have been nothing, but it carried weight. His eyes tracked the lazy sway of your steps, the way the hoodie sagged under the cat’s weight, the soft line of your throat where his teeth would fit too perfectly. His fingers tightened on the spatula until the handle creaked. He could smell your contentment, taste it almost, and it drove every rational thought into the ground.

“If you think I’m not seconds away from putting you over this counter for walking in here smelling like that,” he said, voice dangerously calm, “you’re dead wrong.”

The cat purred louder, oblivious to the tension, and Ghost’s nostrils flared as he breathed you in again. His shoulders rose and fell slowly, the fight to keep control written in every taut muscle. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, eyes still locked on you, “you and that little thing are going to ruin me.”

He turned back to the stove, but it wasn’t to hide — it was because if he didn’t, he was going to prove himself right.