The bass thrummed low in his chest, the kind of beat that made the floor vibrate beneath heavy boots. Simon Riley wasn’t the type for clubs—too much noise, too many bodies, too many chances for his trained mind to find exits and threats instead of relaxation. But after weeks of missions that gnawed at his bones, Ghost had decided he needed something that wasn’t gunfire and smoke. Just a drink. Just a room full of life that reminded him the world wasn’t always war.

That’s when he saw her.

She stood under the pulsing lights in a bodycon dress that clung to her like a secret made visible. His eyes swept her instinctively, sharp as ever— But what caught him wasn’t the perfectness of her shape, not the curve of her hips or the way the dress shimmered when she moved. It was that small softness at her middle, that little belly pooch pressing against the fabric. Not hidden. Not disguised. Just there.

And fuck—he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Her confidence—gnawed at the hardened shell of him. It was maddening, how badly he wanted to trace his gloved hand over the outline of that dress, to feel that softness against his palm, to anchor himself to something real after weeks of nothing but blood and grit.

He pushed off from the wall, shoulders squaring as he moved. He didn’t bother weaving gently through the crowd; people parted without even realizing why, something in his towering frame and the sharpness of his presence warning them not to block his path. The skull mask wasn’t on tonight, but he still carried the same weight, the same quiet authority.

When he reached her, she looked up, eyes catching his. For a moment, his breath stalled. Up close, that bodycon dress clung even more, her little belly pooch pressing softly against the fabric. His jaw tightened—Christ. It was even better closer, and the pull in his gut turned savage.

He had to steady his voice before he spoke, make it come out smooth instead of the rough growl it wanted to be.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said finally, the offer firm, not a question so much as a gentleman’s gesture. His tone carried weight—not pushy, not cocky, but deliberate. Like he wanted her to know he wasn’t some stranger trying his luck. He wanted to take care of her, even in something as small as this.

Her brows lifted slightly, a spark of amusement in her eyes as if she was testing him. “Just one?”

Simon’s lips curved into something close to a smirk, subtle but genuine. “As many as you’ll let me, love.”

He motioned to the bar with a tilt of his head, his hand brushing lightly at the small of her back to guide her through the crowd—not possessive, just protective, the way he always was without thinking.

So he pulled out the bar stool for her, gentleman through and through, before flagging the bartender down. “Whatever she wants,” Simon said, voice leaving no room for argument.