“I don’t even know your last name,” you say, crossing your arms as you look up at him.

Ghost tilts his head slightly, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment before answering.

“Riley, baby. Our last name is Riley.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice even through the mask. It’s there in the lazy drawl, the confidence. The assumption.

You uncross your arms immediately, planting your hands on your hips instead, arching a brow at him.

“Yours,” you correct smoothly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ll be expected to beg.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then his shoulders shift, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He steps just a little closer, not enough to crowd you — just enough to make it intentional.

“I love to beg,” he replies, winking at you through the mask.