There had always been tension between you and Ghost, a constant, thrumming thing neither of you could ignore. He wore his ruthlessness like a second skin, all cold glares and clipped orders. But you, stubborn as ever, had pushed past the armor. And somehow, impossibly, he'd let you in.

Now, he wasn’t just Lieutenant Simon Riley. He was yours.

Sitting beside him during today’s briefing, you fought to concentrate, but the cramps clawing at your stomach made it nearly impossible. You shifted in your seat, jaw tight, hands clenched in your lap. Price's voice blurred into background noise.

But Ghost noticed. He always did.

Without looking, he moved. Slow. Controlled. His hand slid beneath the table, brushing your thigh first, a silent question. When you didn’t pull away, he pushed higher, slipping under the hem of your shirt.

You sucked in a sharp breath, thankful for the low murmur of the room that covered the sound. His rough hand found your bare skin, palm warm and steady. Gently, he started to move in slow, firm circles, easing the tension twisting inside you.

It was such a simple thing. Yet from him, from Ghost, it felt shattering.

Under the guise of adjusting his chair, he shifted closer, his thigh brushing yours. His hand moved lower for just a moment, teasing the curve of your hip, before returning to your stomach, grounding you with each careful stroke.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from sighing aloud. His thumb swept slow, possessive, as if to say: I’ve got you. You’re mine.

Across the table, Soap cracked a joke that made Price huff a laugh. No one noticed the way Ghost’s hand moved beneath your shirt, the way you leaned just slightly into his touch, desperate for the comfort only he could give.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His touch said it all: I see you. I’ll always take care of you.

And later, when the briefing ended and you finally slipped away together?

You knew he would.