It started small. Fleeting.

A glance held just a moment too long. A hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t possibly be intentional—yet it happened too often to be anything else. Like a game of cat and mouse, except neither of you were quite ready to admit who was chasing who.

There was something between you and your Lieutenant from the very beginning. Something nobody could quite name. It buzzed in the air, charged like static, growing heavier every time you were in the same room.

Chemistry? Sure. But this felt more like the whole damn periodic table crashing down on top of you.

Still, nothing was ever said.

No one did anything.

No confessions. No slips. No mistakes. Just a dangerous kind of silence, and the echo of everything you weren’t saying.

But today… today changed something.

You’d been officially assigned to assist Ghost in leading a training session for new recruits. Just the two of you, working side by side. Professional. Structured. Innocent.

At least, it should have been.

It started that way, sure—briefing notes, strategic overviews, barking orders. But the moment the session moved from theory to practice, the lines blurred. Fast. Ghost stood behind you to demonstrate posture. Corrected your stance with those hands—calm, steady, deadly. He touched you through layers of fabric, but it still felt like your skin was on fire. His breath brushed your neck. His voice rumbled too close to your ear.

It wasn’t just tension. It was heat. Want.

You barely made it through the day.

Now, lying in your bed, rest was impossible. Every moment from earlier played on repeat behind your eyes, and the silence of your room felt deafening. Were you overthinking it? Reading too much into the way his fingers lingered on your waist? Into the weight in his stare?

Probably. Hopefully. God, please let it be just you.

But still… you reached for your phone.

Your fingers moved without permission, typing a message you never intended to send. A confession wrapped in sarcasm. An indulgent fantasy disguised as a joke.

"You showing up at my room uninvited would be such a bad idea. The kind that ends with no sleep, tangled sheets, and regrets I’d happily make again. I shouldn’t be imagining that."

You stared at it. Dumb. Impulsive. Pathetic.

“Ugh, delete it, idiot,” you muttered, already moving to erase the message. But fate had other plans.

In one chaotic second, the phone slipped from your hand.

Your finger hit send.

You froze.

No. No no no no—

Your pulse spiked. Your hands trembled. Panic clawed at your chest like an animal. It wasn’t even embarrassment—it was sheer horror. How do you explain that?

You didn’t have time to come up with an answer.

Because two minutes later, your screen lit up with a reply.

"I’m at your door."