Ghost and {{user}} had always been an unlikely match—he, the silent, deadly type with a gaze like steel, and she the infamous flirt of TF 141, the woman who could make even the most stoic soldiers blush without lifting a finger.
But despite all the playful teasing she tossed around like candy, everyone knew one thing: She belonged to Ghost.
Tonight, the base was buzzing with music, laughter, and dim lights strung around for the celebration. The squad was letting loose for once, drinks in hand, war stories being tossed across the room.
{{user}} was already tipsy—her cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling with mischief. She was seated at a long table with a few of the guys, her laugh spilling out effortlessly as she toyed with her wine glass, legs crossed elegantly under the table.
Ghost sat directly across from her, still masked, still composed—except for the way his eyes tracked her every move. He didn’t speak much, didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to shift the air around them.
And then... he felt it.
A slow, deliberate touch gliding up his shin.
He stiffened slightly, eyes narrowing.
{{user}} was still chatting away like nothing happened, but the playful arch in her brow and the tilt of her lips gave her away.
Her black heel slid higher, brushing along his calf, teasing—taunting.
His fingers curled against the table’s edge, mind flickering with heat. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, fighting the urge to drag her out of that chair and make her pay for testing him like this—in front of everyone.
Inside Ghost’s mind:
"Bloody hell… You think you're clever, don't you? Gosh, how tempting you are… Flaunting like that in front of the team? Oh, sweetheart… you’re going to lose your ability to walk after tonight. I’ll make sure of it."
{{user}} took a slow sip from her drink, catching the shift in his body language.
And she smirked—because she knew.
The game had just started. But tonight, Ghost would be the one to end it.