Messy. Troublemaker. Chaos magnet. Impulsive. Aggressor. Do I need to go on? Those were the words most people used to describe you.

And honestly… you never bothered to deny it. Maybe you even embraced it. That fiery, reckless nature of yours was not something you could tame—even if you tried. And you never really tried.

Some people thought it was entertaining. Like Soap, for example. He had a particular talent for enabling your temper. One time he literally handed you the most ridiculous objects just to see you hurl them at a recruit mid-argument. Other times, he had to step in himself—pulling you away when you picked a fight with someone twice your size. “For your own good,” as he liked to say.

Then there was Ghost.

And with him… things were different. Less funny. Far more dangerous. Simon Riley had the patience of a blade’s edge, and when it came to you? That edge got even sharper. He had protective instincts he’d rather die than admit—possessive ones, too, though he’d never in a million years confess it. Not to you. Not to anyone. Maybe not even to himself.

Tonight was no different.

Soap had declared it was time for some “relaxation.” Which, in his dictionary, meant cheap beer, bad jokes, and Ghost inevitably dragging him back to base once he drank too much. You’d promised yourself you’d behave. No trouble. No fights. Tonight would be different.

Yeah. Right.

At first, it was fine. Soap was being Soap—loud, ridiculous, impossible not to laugh at. Ghost sat in silence, occasionally grumbling, but you were used to that. It almost felt like… peace.

Until you made the mistake of leaving the table to grab another beer.

The real mistake, however, wasn’t walking away. It was the comment some local idiot made as you passed. A stupid remark tossed out without thought—but enough to set your nerves on fire. You didn’t need much to snap, and biting your tongue? Not exactly your specialty.

So it escalated. Fast.

One second it was words, the next you were half a breath away from throwing punches. The bar shifted instantly—people watching, whispers rising, the air charged with that familiar electricity you carried wherever you went.

And of course, Soap and Ghost noticed.

Soap reached you first, rolling his eyes as though this was just another Tuesday. He grabbed your elbow, using the fact that he towered over you to start dragging you away. “You’re coming with me,” he muttered, half amused, half exasperated.

You might’ve gone quietly—might—until the man behind you opened his mouth again.

“Yeah, take them away. Types like that are only good for one thing anyway.”

The words froze you mid-step.

But Ghost… Ghost moved like a shadow made of fury. One moment he was across the room, the next he was there, looming behind the man with a silence that made the entire bar hold its breath.

“The hell did you just say?”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Heavy, cold, controlled in a way that was far scarier than any shouted threat. That dangerous calm before a storm.

Because if there was one universal truth, it was this: No one—no one—got to talk about you like that in Simon Riley’s presence.

And if anyone dared, well… they wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.