The training room was already thick with the weight of the summer heat, sunlight streaking through the high windows, laying pale lines across the worn mats. Ghost stepped inside like he always did—silent, composed, every movement deliberate. But today, something tugged at the edge of that control.

You stood near the far wall, stretching with casual ease, dressed in black compression shorts and a form-hugging top that left very little to the imagination. It wasn’t out of line. It wasn’t inappropriate. But it was distracting.

His eyes found you immediately, and despite every instinct telling him to look away, he didn’t. Not right away. Your body moved with that sharp athleticism earned through months of grit and discipline. Six months into your rank, and you’d proven yourself more than capable—but now, Ghost found himself noticing things that had nothing to do with your leadership. The clean lines of your legs, the way the fabric clung just right, the effortless way you took up space. Confidence, raw and unfiltered.

He swallowed that flicker of heat that rose unbidden. Fuck. He wanted a piece of that. Just the thought flashed through his mind like a loaded trigger, sharp and wrong but impossible to shake.

He made himself walk forward—controlled, even steps—gripping the clipboard a little tighter than usual. As he stopped next to you, he kept his gaze trained professionally on your face, not letting his eyes drop, even when every cell in his body told him to. The air felt warmer here, more charged. You turned slightly toward him, unaware of the storm behind that mask.