The safehouse was barebones—four walls, a door that didn’t close properly, and a single narrow bed shoved against the wall like an afterthought. One thin blanket. No heater. Concrete floors so cold they bit through your boots.
Soap stepped in first, glancing around with a sigh. “Right, well. Guess this place was built for one poor bastard, not three.”
Ghost dropped his gear by the wall with a grunt. “I’ll take the floor.”
“Hell no,” you said automatically, slinging your pack down. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’m used to it.”
Soap rolled his eyes and gave Ghost a flat look. “You’ve got enough screws loose without adding hypothermia to the list.”
“Then I’ll take the floor,” you offered, already tugging at your jacket zipper. “I’m small enough to crash on my pack.”
Both men gave you the same sharp look.
“No,” Ghost said, voice final.
“You’ll ache for a week,” Soap added. “We’re not doing that.”
You all stood there a moment, silent, stubborn. Then Soap looked at the bed again and shrugged.
“We’re all adults. One bed, three bodies. Head to toe if we have to.”
You arched a brow. “Ever tried sleeping with Ghost’s boots near your face?”
Ghost snorted, the faintest smirk in his voice. “I’m not sleeping in my boots, you know.”
Eventually, an agreement was made: all three of you in the bed, boys facing outward—Ghost on one side, Soap on the other, and you safe in the middle. They’d flank you, keep you warm, no funny business. Just sleep.
That had been the plan, anyway.
You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up—just that the moonlight had shifted and the room was bathed in soft silver. You were too warm, wrapped in heat that had nothing to do with the thin blanket.
Soap’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, skin-to-skin and entirely unbothered. His breath tickled the curve of your neck, soft and steady. One of his legs had somehow worked its way between yours, your leg hitched over his.
Behind you, Ghost was molded to your back, chest pressed close, the slow rise and fall of his breath an anchor against your spine. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, the other tucked beneath the pillow you shared. Protective. Possessive. Present.
You shifted slightly, caught between warmth and awareness, and felt Soap's fingers twitch.Ghost’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Like they both felt it too.
Your breath hitched.
It wasn’t anything overt. Nothing crude. You were surrounded, caged in heat and strength and quiet tension.
And God, it felt good.
You could’ve pulled back. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You leaned in—drifting your fingers along Ghost’s forearm, letting your leg press deeper against Soap’s. Neither man spoke, but Soap’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.
Ghost... Ghost exhaled against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, his face pressing in closer.
You fell asleep again like that—wrapped in the kind of tension that lulled you rather than startled. Wanting to stay wrapped in this dream a little longer before having to face reality.
—————————————————————————
The second time you woke, it was slower—every inch of your body aware before your mind caught up.
Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Breath against your throat.
Soap had shifted in the night, his head now tucked beneath your chin, resting lightly on your bicep. Your arm had curled around him, cradling him. His hand had drifted lower, fingers curved gently around the dip of your thigh. Your hips pressed snugly to his. Innocent, but barely.
Behind you, Ghost had only pulled you closer—his hand now splayed along your ribs, thumb rhythmically stroking the soft skin just under your breast.
You stayed still. Testing the moment.
Then you moved—just a little. A shift, nothing more.
Soap stirred against you, his body pressing closer.
Ghost’s hand stilled… then resumed its slow stroke.
Deliberate. Intentional.
“You’re awake,” came Ghost’s voice—low, gravelly. Dangerous.
You swallowed. “Didn’t mean to move.”
“Didn’t say stop.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Soap chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep and something else. “Think she likes waking up between us.” He arched his neck up and you felt his nose run up your neck, running back down to your collar bone where he nuzzled into you.
Your breath hitched.
“You’re imagining things,” you mumbled, but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Breathless.
“You sure about that?” Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “Because from where I’m lying, you haven’t moved away.”
You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You were burning now—trapped between them and completely unwilling to escape.
Soap shifted again, his hand trailing down your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts. “We won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” he murmured.
“But if you want something…” Ghost said, voice dropping to a low, dark promise, “…just say it.”
The silence stretched.
And you wondered how you were going to convince yourself that this was a bad idea.
