His fingers brushed your shoulder as he reached past. Deliberate. Barely a touch. But enough to send a jolt through you, sharp and electric, like the moment before a flashbang goes off. You didn’t breathe until you heard the click of the lock. Final. No turning back.

Simon’s eyes dragged over your face like he was memorizing it, cataloging every line, every shadow. His jaw flexed, and when he finally spoke, it came out low and rough, words dragged from somewhere deep.

“This is gonna ruin us.”

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

The air between you crackled like static. You could feel his restraint like a noose—tight, fraying, seconds from snapping. And maybe that was what you wanted. Maybe that was what made your hands move first, grabbing the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him down.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It never was with him. It was hungry, brutal, like trying to eat lightning. His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself to the only real thing in a burning world. You gasped when he backed you into the desk, papers crumpling beneath your hips. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His mouth trailed down your jaw, teeth grazing skin, and you felt him mutter something against your throat.

“What?”

“Don’t care anymore,” he murmured. “Tired of pretending this doesn’t mean anything.”

You didn’t have time to respond—not before his hands were under your shirt, dragging it over your head. His mouth was everywhere, devouring you like he needed it to breathe. And you? You gave in. Gave everything. Because with him, there was no halfway. There was only fire or nothing at all.

He lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing, like your body belonged in his hands. And when he looked at you again—really looked—something had shifted. Less guarded. Still intense, but raw now. Exposed.

“You think this is just a mistake?” he asked, voice like smoke. “Tell me the truth.”

You hated that he could read you like that. That he knew the exact moment you started falling and couldn’t stop.

“I don’t know what it is,” you whispered. “But I want it.”

That was all it took.

The next minutes were a blur of sensation—skin against skin, the rough scrape of his stubble on your neck, the sound of your name tangled in his voice as he pushed you past the edge. There was nothing gentle about it. Nothing careful. He held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go, and you clawed at him like maybe he already had.

When it was over, when the storm inside both of you had finally broken, you lay tangled together in the dark. His arm curled around your waist. His face pressed into the crook of your neck. For once, he wasn’t the first to pull away.

He stayed. Breathing slow. Steady.

“Doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore,” you murmured.

His fingers traced lazy circles against your hip. “Then maybe we stop pretending.”

You tilted your head, trying to read him in the low light. “And what, Ghost? Just… be?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, quiet, like he was working through every worst-case scenario in that tactical brain of his.

But then he nodded. Barely.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just be.”