The bar was dim, crowded, and loud—just the way you needed it after the chaos of the last op. A successful hit, no casualties, and a clean extraction. You were still riding the high of adrenaline when Ghost slid a whiskey across the bar to you.

“Hell of a job out there,” he said, voice low and rough, still half masked like always. The black fabric only came off when absolutely necessary.

You clinked your glass against his. “Cheers to not dying.”

He chuckled. “Always a plus.”

The first drink went down easy. The second even easier. You hadn’t seen Ghost unwind like this before. His body was still tense out of habit, but his eyes had softened. Less sharp, more curious. He leaned closer when you spoke, like he was listening to every word—not as a soldier, but as a man.

The conversation drifted. First to the mission, then to nothing at all. Bullshit stories. Teasing banter. Flashes of real smiles. You never thought you’d see that from him. Somewhere between the third and fourth round, he ditched the mask entirely. Just peeled it off like it didn’t matter.

“You’ve got a nice face, Ghost,” you teased, your voice thick with liquor and something else.

“Name’s Simon, actually.”

That hit you harder than the bourbon.

And then you laughed. He did too.

Things got fuzzy after that. Music blurred. The lights swirled. You remembered his hand on your waist, your arm slung around his shoulders, the two of you stumbling out into the cool night air.

The last clear memory you had was the hotel hallway—how close he stood. How his gaze dropped to your lips. How yours lingered on the curve of his jaw, shadowed with stubble. You remember saying something like, “This is probably a bad idea.”

He replied with a smirk. “Probably.”

And then—nothing.

⸻

Your head was pounding when you woke up. Your mouth tasted like old bourbon and regret.

The sheets weren’t yours.

You sat up too fast and groaned. You weren’t in your room. You weren’t even in a room, really. This was clearly his—dark, minimal, faint smell of tobacco and leather.

You looked down.

His t-shirt was on your body. Your clothes were nowhere in sight. Your bra was on the floor near the foot of the bed.

You froze.

There was a deep voice behind you, thick with sleep.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You turned your head slowly. Ghost—Simon—was sprawled on his side, shirtless, tattoos partially hidden under the sheets. His messy blond hair was sticking in every direction, and he was watching you with a lazy smirk and very little shame.

You blinked at him. “Did we—?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You tell me. You were the one who kissed me first.”

Your face burned. “I kissed you?”

“Twice,” he said, smug. “Then climbed into my lap and told me I smelled good.”

“Oh, God.”

“You also called me ‘big guy’ like you were in a damn rom-com.”

You buried your face in your hands.

He chuckled. “Relax. I liked it.”

You let out a sigh, not of relief, but something a bit eased. “Where did my shirt go?” you mumble, softly.

He grinned. “You threw up on yours.”

“…Oh.”

Silence. You looked over at him again. He was still watching you. Still amused.

And still shirtless.

Your eyes betrayed you, drifting down. His smirk deepened.

“You’re looking again.”

You cleared your throat and tossed a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

He caught it easily, then rolled out of bed, stretching like a cat, completely unbothered by your flustered state.

“You hungry?” he asked casually, heading toward the tiny kitchenette in the corner. “I make a mean hangover breakfast.”

You hesitated.

“Only if you wear pants this time,” you muttered.

He laughed. “No promises.”

And despite the headache, despite the embarrassment, you smiled.