No one warned him you’d be this difficult— but then again, no one ever warned you that Ghost would be the only man alive capable of keeping up with you.

People talk about you before you even enter a room.

The attitude. The sharp tongue. The defiant spine that never bends, even when it probably should.

If it wasn’t for the near-inhuman efficiency you deliver on every mission, command would’ve tossed you out ages ago. Everyone knows it. Everyone avoids you. Everyone dreads having you on their team.

Everyone except Ghost.

He handles you like you’re a weapon he’s trained with for years—steady hands, steady voice, steady patience that no one else has ever managed to reach for, let alone hold. He never flinches when you snap. Never backs down when you bite. Never raises his tone when yours cuts to the bone.

Where everyone else sees a problem, Ghost sees precision. Where they feel threatened, he feels familiar heat.

Most think he simply tolerates you because he’s Ghost—silent, unreadable, impossible to provoke. They think he’s immune to your chaos, numb to your snarled insults, unbothered by your glare.

They have no idea how wrong they are.

Tonight, when you storm into the briefing room five minutes late, slamming a folder down in front of Captain Price like you’re daring someone to mention it, the air shifts. Not because you’re angry—you’re always angry—but because Ghost walks in a moment after you, gaze locked on you like a shadow tethered to its source.

Your jaw is set. Your eyes sharp. Your posture daring. Ghost moves behind you, slow, controlled, the kind of presence that doesn’t announce itself but sinks into skin and bone.

“Late,” Price mutters.

You inhale, ready to bite back, but Ghost’s voice cuts through the air—low, cold, effortless.

“Told ’er to wait for me.”

It’s a lie. A blatant one. Price knows it. You know it. Ghost knows you know it. But no one dares challenge him. Not when his attention lingers on you a second too long. Not when you sit down beside him and he doesn’t look away.

If anyone else tried to speak for you, you’d rip their throat out with words alone. But Ghost? He just earns the slightest tilt of your head.

A silent warning. A silent acceptance.

People think you hate each other. People think you barely tolerate standing in the same room.

People don’t know a damn thing.

After the briefing, when the others are gone and the lights hum low, you push past him with a muttered, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Ghost catches your wrist—not rough, but firm enough that your pulse jumps. His mask tilts down toward you, eyes burning through the black fabric.

“Didn’t like how they were lookin’ at you,” he murmurs. “Didn’t like the tone either.”

“You’re projecting again,” you mutter, but your voice softens, betraying you.

His fingers slide from your wrist to your waist, pulling you close, backing you against the edge of the table. The heat between you is familiar, dangerous, a wildfire that only the two of you know how to burn in. His breath grazes your ear, his words carving into your skin like a ghost of a bruise.

“You keep actin’ like you don’t know who you belong to.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you spit—too quick, too sharp to be true.

Ghost presses his forehead to yours, mask brushing your lips.

“Funny.”

Your fingers twist into his vest, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. That’s the part no one knows. No one sees. The part that would shatter the base if it ever slipped.

The woman with the impossible attitude—and the only man who can tame her without breaking her.

The two of you, hidden in plain sight. A secret no one alive would dare guess.

Ghost’s voice drops to a growl.

“C’mon, love. Drop the attitude.”