It was supposed to be one night.

You’d met him in a Manchester pub, the kind of place crowded enough that nobody paid attention to anybody else. He’d been sitting alone at the bar, broad shoulders beneath a black jacket, nursing the same glass for nearly twenty minutes.

You noticed him first.

He noticed you noticing.

One drink became two. Two became sitting beside him. You learned almost nothing about him except that his name was Simon, he was military, and he had the driest sense of humour you’d ever encountered. He learned equally little about you.

That was probably why it worked.

There were no promises when you followed him back to his hotel. No awkward discussion about what came next. Just attraction that had been simmering between you all evening, finally boiling over when the door shut behind you.

When morning came, you slipped your clothes back on while Simon was still half-buried beneath the sheets.

“Leaving already?” His rough voice followed you.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Were you planning on making me breakfast?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

The smallest hint of amusement touched his face.

You left without his number.

Simon never asked for yours.

Perfect.

At least, that was what you thought.

Nearly two months later, you were standing inside a military facility with a duffel over your shoulder and paperwork beneath your arm.

Your transfer had come unexpectedly. You’d been contracted to work alongside a specialized unit—Task Force 141. Highly classified operations, highly trained soldiers, and apparently a captain who didn’t believe in giving newcomers more information than necessary.

Captain Price walked beside you through the compound, giving you the shortened version of everything you needed to know.

“Gaz and Soap are around somewhere,” he explained. “You’ll meet them soon enough.”

You nodded, adjusting the strap on your shoulder.

“And Riley should be—”

Price pushed open another door.

You stepped through behind him.

Then stopped.

Oh.

Fuck.

A massive man stood across the room beside a table covered in weapons and mission files. Tactical gear replaced the black shirt you remembered. A skull-patterned mask covered the face you’d spent an entire night looking at.

But those eyes?

You knew those eyes.

Simon went completely still.

For perhaps the first time since you’d met him, Simon Riley looked genuinely caught off guard.

His gaze dropped over you once, like he needed to confirm you were actually standing there, before snapping back to your face.

You stared right back.

Neither of you said a word.

Price, blissfully unaware, continued walking.

“Lieutenant Simon Riley,” he introduced. “Ghost. He’ll be working closely with you while you settle in.”

Working closely.

Of course he fucking would.

Price looked toward Simon. “Ghost, this is our new transfer.”

Silence.

Simon’s eyes hadn’t left yours.

You forced your expression into something professional, although you could practically feel that night flashing between the two of you in increasingly inconvenient detail.

You extended your hand.

“Lieutenant.”

His eyes flicked toward it.

There was a pause just long enough to be suspicious before one gloved hand closed around yours.

His grip was firm.

Familiar.

“Sergeant.”

The word came out lower than necessary.

Price glanced between you both. “You two met before?”

“No,” you answered immediately.

“Yes,” Simon said at the same time.

Your head snapped toward him.

Simon stared down at you.

Price’s brow lifted.

You quickly released Simon’s hand. “Briefly.”

“Briefly?” Simon repeated.

There was something dangerously close to amusement underneath that mask.

You shot him a warning look.

Price looked between you both before deciding he had better things to investigate. “Right. Ghost can show you around. Briefing’s at eighteen hundred.”

Then he left.

The door clicked shut.

Silence swallowed the room.

You and Simon stared at each other from opposite sides of it.

Two months ago, you had walked out of his hotel expecting never to see him again.

Now he was your lieutenant.