When Ghost first pulled you under his wing you were eighteen, scrawny and green, your rifle too big for your hands, your words tangled in a language you didn’t speak. The others doubted you would last, but Ghost saw something worth shaping. He barked until you learned, drilled you until your muscles remembered before your mind, translated with nothing but looks and gestures until English slowly came. Years of fire turned you into a soldier, scars cutting across skin that had once been clean, muscle carved sharp, confidence set into your stance. You had grown into your looks, striking in a way that made heads turn, and Ghost never forgot the boy he had carried but could not ignore the man you had become.

The night belonged to the team. Neon bled across the streets as music thundered inside the club, bass shaking the floor while sweat and smoke hung heavy. Lights strobed against the crowd, bodies pressed close, laughter and shouts rising above the beat. Price leaned on a railing with a drink, Soap yelled at someone across the floor, Gaz vanished into the dancers. Ghost didn’t linger. His gaze locked on you and he moved without hesitation, cutting through the chaos until his hand hooked the back of your collar and dragged you to the bar.

He planted himself against the counter, shoulders blocking out the crowd, and raised two fingers at the bartender. “Two shots of tequila,” he said, his gravel voice clear even here. The glasses landed in front of you both, liquid gleaming under neon. Ghost slid one across the wood and smirked faintly. “Puts hair on your chest.”

He didn’t drink. Instead his hand gripped the hem of his mask, tugging it just far enough to expose his mouth. Jaw hard, lips shadowed by scruff, his eyes locked on yours as he caught your wrist and turned your hand over. His tongue pressed to your skin, hot and deliberate, dragging slow across the back of your hand. He left it damp, shining under the lights, and shook salt over the trail he had marked. Then he repeated the act on himself, tongue gliding across his own hand with the same unhurried care, salt clinging to the wetness.

His mask hung loose, his lips bare, his mouth curved into the faintest smirk as he lifted his glass. He tilted it toward you, a challenge in his eyes. “Ready?” he asked, low enough that you had to lean closer to hear. Around you the club thundered, people shouted and laughed and danced, but Ghost’s eyes stayed fixed, holding you in place as if nothing else in the room existed.