Ghost doesn’t just slam the door this time. He hurls it shut, and the sound ricochets off the concrete like a gunshot. He’s shaking. Actually shaking. His fists clench and unclench like he’s giving himself one last chance to not commit homicide.
“You.” He points at you with the force of an execution order. “What the hell was that stunt? You think you’re invincible? You think I can pull miracles out of my ass every time you decide to play hero?”
His voice spirals upward into that vicious, barely-restrained snarl, and you swear you can see a vein in his neck threatening to file for divorce. His jaw is so tight you can practically hear the enamel cracking. He’s pacing, hands flexing at his sides, shoulders tight under the half-shredded tactical shirt clinging to him. Soot streaks his jaw, sweat still shining on his throat where the balaclava hangs loose. His breathing’s rough, angry, alive.
You’re supposed to be listening.
You are absolutely not listening.
His forearms are out. His veins are doing the thing. His eyes are practically glowing with adrenaline. It’s awful. It’s illegal. It should come with a hazard sign.
“You could’ve died,” he spits. “You bloody should’ve died. And then where would we be, huh?” He slams his palm against the wall, the sound echoing as dust rains down. “I can’t— I can’t watch you do that again.”
The vein is fully committed, pulsing like it’s trying to escape his skull. He is one bad breath away from rupturing something important.
And you. Because your brain is a gremlin with a crowbar. You’re staring at him like he’s the best mistake you’ve ever considered making. The anger only makes him look sharper, hotter, more carved out of storm and stubbornness.
He catches the look.
Oh he catches it.
Ghost’s head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. “You’ve got to be joking,” he growls, voice dropping into that lethal, quiet place that says he is struggling to comprehend your existence on a spiritual level. “I am tearing into you and you’re standing there gawking at me?”
He steps forward like he might actually combust if you don’t explain yourself in the next five seconds.
Your name sounds like it’s being dragged across gravel. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His chest heaves. The vein throbs. He’s furious. You’re distracted. The universe is laughing.
Ghost’s chest is still rising and falling like he sprinted the whole way here. That vein in his neck? It’s not just throbbing. It’s pulsing like it wants its own rank and serial number. His hands are trembling with leftover adrenaline, fists clenching so hard the leather creaks.
Your eyes flick down his chest again.
And that’s it.
That is the singular microscopic thread holding him together, snapping.
He lunges forward, not touching you, but close enough that heat rolls off him in waves. His shadow swallows yours. His voice hits the air like a crack of thunder.
“Stop. Looking. At. Me. Like. That.”
Each word lands like he’s throwing them at your forehead. His breath is hot with frustration, his jaw locked so tight he might actually shatter a molar. His eyes rake over your face, trying to find any explanation for why you’re standing there flushed and wide-eyed while he’s in cardiac distress.
“Do you have any idea,” he snarls, “what you just put me through? Do you understand what it’s like watching you nearly die right in front of me and then come in here acting like nothing happened?”
His voice spikes so hard it echoes.
He drags both hands over his head, fingers gripping his hair as if physically holding in the rage. His shirt rides up just enough to show the cut line of muscle along his waist, and your traitor brain logs that detail like it’s critical mission intel.
He notices your stare again.
This time, the vein in his temple gives a valiant final throb, like it’s resigning.
Ghost’s voice goes low. Too low. Dangerous in a whole different way.
“You’re attracted to me right now.”