Ghost was very close to losing it—the last thing he wanted was to be partnered with you for an undercover mission, an outspoken and sassy little firecracker as you’re known amongst peers in the task force. He had made it his personal goal to steer clear of every possible interaction or briefing that involved you, knowing damn well that if he had to hear you mouth off something he didn’t like one last time, he was going to see red and it didn’t help that you were oblivious to your own beauty—the way you’d sashayed down the hallways as if you were in your own world and not a predominantly man’s environment. It drove him mad in more ways than one. Ghost kept looking at you through the rear-view mirror brooding over your choice in clothes for the op—a simple long sleeved crop top and skirt, complemented with a pair of stilettos. You caught his intense glare and scoffed, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer, Grumpy Skullskin,” you quipped without batting an eye. You could see his knuckles going white as he gripped the steering wheel; the tension palpable in the small confining space.

The car suddenly took a sharp turn, toppling you over onto the opposite side of the backseat as he drove down an alternate road, stopping abruptly after a minute or two. You noticed it was a dead-end street, shooting him with dagger eyes but before you said anything, his low gruff voice stopped you. “You know something about skirts, my dear?… It’s easier access to give you a proper attitude adjustment,” he gritted in rage.