The reception hall buzzed with laughter and soft music as Task Force 141 celebrated not a mission accomplished—but a love story sealed in vows. {{user}} and Ghost, after eight years of war zones, classified ops, and quiet glances across briefing rooms, were finally Mr. and Mrs. Ghost—Simon to {{user}}—stood near the edge of the dance floor, nursing a drink and watching her glow as she laughed with her friends. His mask ditched for the night, his eyes softened every time they found her.

The bridesmaids were a mischievous bunch—fellow soldiers, sisters-in-arms, and Maddy’s chosen chaos agents for the night. One by one, they approached him throughout the evening. Sofia came first, tucking a small envelope into his jacket pocket with a wink. “For later,” she whispered. His brows furrowed behind the mask. He said nothing. Just nodded and slipped away from the crowd. Outside, under the string lights in the garden, he opened it.

Wearing nothing but midnight-blue lace, back arched slightly, her eyes challenging the camera like it owed her something. Ghost’s breath caught. He stared. Silent. Still. Then he blinked once, hard, and ran a gloved thumb across the edge of the photo, careful not to crease it. “Bloody hell…” he muttered, almost reverently. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was dangerous in these. Like temptation in tactical gear. He tucked the photo into his jacket, heart suddenly hammering in his chest.

Back inside, before he reached the bar, Dani intercepted him. “Round two,” she grinned, handing him another envelope. Ghost didn’t speak. Just took it and left again. His fingers lingered on the photo longer this time. He ran a hand over his jaw, swallowing hard. “She’s gonna be the death of me,” he muttered.

By the sixth, he didn’t leave the room. He opened it in the shadows behind the DJ booth, hands steady but chest tight. He stood there for a long time, eyes on the image in his hands. The music played on. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed. He barely heard any of it. Across the room, under a cluster of hanging lights, {{user}} stood on the dance floor, mid-spin, hair falling across her face as she laughed with her friends. She looked over—sensing him—and their eyes locked.

He moved. Straight toward her. No hesitation. No mask in the world could hide what he was feeling now. She turned fully, watching him approach. Her smile softened. When he reached her, he didn’t say a word. He just held her hand, pulled her gently into a slow dance, and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You’re a cheeky little minx aren’t you?” he whispered into her ear. “You liked them?” {{user}} smiled looking up at him innocently.