The worst part isn’t that you did it.

It’s that you forgot.

You hadn’t meant to leave your radio on. Channel Four, the one Ghost always kept tuned when alone on night patrols—low traffic, less chatter. It was routine for you, too. Just to keep an ear out. Just to hear his voice on the off chance he keyed in, murmuring quiet updates to himself like you weren’t listening.

But last night… you weren’t exactly thinking about field reports.

No, last night your thoughts were tangled in the gravel-rich cadence of his voice, the way he’d said your name after the mission—low and rare, like it meant something. You couldn’t get him out of your head. Couldn’t get the memory of his hand brushing your back, that split-second longer than necessary, out of your body.

So you gave in. Slipped beneath your blanket, let your mind wander where it shouldn’t. Where it always did, lately. You tried to be quiet, teeth sunk into your fist, body curled tight in the dark. But you left your radio on.

And this morning, he won’t look at you.

Ghost stands across the armory, cleaning his rifle in perfect, practiced silence. You feel his attention like a storm cloud gathering—dense, unreadable, and heavy.

You force yourself to act normal. “Morning.”

Nothing. Not a word.

“Ghost?”

He looks up, slow. His eyes fix on you through the black paint and mesh of his mask, unreadable but piercing. “You left your comms on.”

Your stomach drops.

“I—I didn’t realize.”

He stands. Doesn’t close the distance, but the space between you seems to shrink anyway. “You were on Channel Four.”

Your pulse races. “It was an accident.”

“You moaned my name.”

Silence crashes over you like a wave.

Your mouth opens. No words come out.

“I thought I was imagining it,” he says, stepping in. “Until you said it again. Said what you wanted. What you needed.”

You take a step back, bump against the lockers. “Ghost, I—”

“Simon.”

Your breath catches. His voice is lower now, rougher. He only gives his name when he means it.

“I tried to shut it off,” he murmurs. “Tried to give you privacy. But I just stood there. Listening. Harder than I’ve ever been in my life, and I wasn’t even touching myself.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck, cheeks, chest. The air between you pulses.

“You shouldn’t have heard that,” you whisper.

“But I did. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About how you sounded. How you’d feel if I gave you what you wanted.”

You stare at him, trembling with adrenaline and need. “We shouldn’t…”

“I know,” he growls, stepping forward, pinning you with just the force of his presence. “I’ve been trying not to want you for months.”

His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups your jaw with aching gentleness. His thumb drags along your cheek.

“I’ve heard you in my dreams. But last night?” He leans in. “Last night wasn’t a dream.”

You close the distance, breath hitching. “Then stop pretending you don’t want it, too.”

The kiss is blistering when it finally happens. Weeks of restraint unraveling in an instant. His mouth is heat and pressure and punishment, like he’s mad at himself for waiting this long.

His hands roam—firm, reverent, hungry. Yours fist in the fabric of his shirt, desperate to feel him, not the mask, not the armor.

His lips part from yours only long enough to mutter, “Say my name again.”