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Permanent Assignment

Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - fanfic

Warnings: 18+, Explicit sexual content, Unprotected sex, Loving sex, Soft dom!Simon, Tactical/Military context, High-intensity sparring / Brutal combat.

The fluorescent lights of the Hereford supermarket buzzed overhead, casting a clinical glow across the rows of refrigerated cases. Soap stood by the glass doors, casually scanning the shelves, while Ghost loomed beside him. He was entirely closed off from the civilian world, wearing his black baseball cap pulled low, a black face mask obscuring his jaw, and his signature skeleton-print gloves resting on his phone.

"I'm telling ye, tomorrow’s joint exercise is gonna be a proper slaughter," Soap muttered with a grin, shifting a couple of cans in his hand. "The Banshees think they’re hot shit, but they aren't ready for—"

"Oh, please, MacTavish. The only thing getting slaughtered tomorrow is your oversized ego."

Soap blinked, a massive smirk instantly spreading across his face as Maggie Rochester stepped into the aisle, pushing a shopping cart. She stopped right in front of them, crossing her arms with a teasing, defiant look.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged into the dairy section," Soap chuckled, leaning his elbow on their cart to look at her. " You lot ready to get schooled by the 141?"

"In your dreams, Johnny," Maggie shot back, tossing her head back with a laugh. "Tomorrow, the Banshees are going to show you how real operators get the job done."

They kept banter-flirting, throwing light jabs at each other about the upcoming combatives drill. Right beside them, Ghost didn't even look up from his screen. He merely let out a low, irritated grunt, his thumb scrolling past notifications. The ambient noise of the market combined with Soap and Maggie's loud, distracting teasing was already wearing his patience thin.

"Mags, I didn't find your bloody lactose-free yogurt, so suck it up and just eat the regular—"

Eve rounded the corner, her eyes entirely glued to a plastic tub of Greek yogurt in her hand. She was completely focused on the product as she walked up to her teammate, totally oblivious to who Maggie was actually talking to.

Eve finally lifted her head to look—and stopped dead in her tracks.

Directly in front of her, Ghost had stopped scrolling. He slowly lowered his phone, his massive frame instantly dominating her line of sight. Under the dark brim of his cap, his dark eyes locked straight onto hers.

The supermarket sounds seemed to vanish. For a few agonizing seconds, neither Eve nor Ghost moved, breathed, or blinked. Even with his face masked, the raw, electric current between them was palpable—a heavy, unspoken weight of history and unyielding attraction that flared up the moment their eyes met. Ghost’s gaze darkened, tracing the sharp line of her jaw, his chest rising just a fraction faster. Eve’s fingers tightened around the yogurt container, her breath hitching in her throat.

Soap looked between the two of them, a slow, devilish smirk widening on his face as he broke the heavy spell. "Careful not to get too close to the fridge, Eve. Wouldn't want that icy glare of yours to freeze the produce."

Eve’s eyes slowly dragged away from Ghost, forcing her racing heart to steady. She looked at Soap, her expression smoothing into a mask of cool, professional detachment, though a subtle flush of nerves crept up her neck.

"MacTavish," she acknowledged tightly, her voice a little lower than usual. Then her eyes flicked back to the giant in the mask for a fraction of a second. "Riley."

Without waiting for a response, she blindly tossed the yogurt into Maggie’s cart. She gripped the handle of the cart, slightly hurried, betraying the sudden spike of adrenaline in her veins. "Gotta go Maggie, let’s move."

Giving Ghost one final, lingering look that practically burned through the air, Eve turned the cart around and swiftly disappeared down the next aisle, her posture rigid from the sudden nervousness.

Ghost didn't move an inch. His head turned slowly, his dark eyes tracking the dark red curls of her hair until she completely vanished past the bakery section.

"Aye, don't run off on my account, LT!" Soap called out loudly down the empty aisle, laughing. He then immediately turned his attention back to Maggie, leaning in close with a wink to resume their banter. "Now, where were we, Maggie? Right... about me pinning you to the mat tomorrow."

Ghost finally snapped his gaze back to Soap, then over to Maggie. The look he gave them through his mask was cold enough to crack glass, completely fed up with the noise and the sudden tension that had left him wired. Without saying a single word, Ghost shoved his phone deep into his pocket and walked away in the exact opposite direction, leaving Soap trailing behind.

********

The two units stood in a tense, loose perimeter around the center mats, the stark white fluorescent lights overhead casting sharp shadows on everyone. The casual banter from the barracks had evaporated; now, it was strictly professional.

At the head of the floor stood Captain Price and Captain Smith, two monoliths of the old guard, looking over their respective teams like seasoned generals preparing a battle board.

Price cleared his throat, the sound rough and gravelly. "Listen up. Today’s joint exercise is strictly combatives. Submission and tactical leverage only. No permanent damage, but I want to see real pressure. Let's see how our tactics blend when the room gets small."

Smith stepped forward, his eyes scanning the lines. "We’ve structured the pairings based on tactical asymmetry. We want you fighting outside your comfort zones. First up: Captain Price and myself. The Old Wolves."

A collective, respectful chuckle rippled through both squads. Price chewed on his unlit cigar, giving Smith a sharp, knowing nod. It was the battle of the minds—pure experience, weight, and heavy strategy over raw speed. Neither man was going to give an inch of ground.

"Next," Price continued, pointing a gloved finger. "Gaz, you’re with Kane."

Gaz immediately stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, his expression turning intensely focused. He was disciplined, methodical, and arguably the most technically sound fighter in the 141. Kane met him on the edge of the mat, his heavy, lethal stance anchoring him to the floor.

"Don't worry, mate," Gaz murmured as Kane closed the distance. "I’ll try to keep it technical so you can keep up."

"Watch your blind spots, Sergeant," Kane replied, his voice deadpan and dangerous. "Technique doesn't mean much when you're eating canvas."

Smith checked his clipboard. "Third pairing: MacTavish and Rochester."

A wide, devilish grin instantly split Soap’s face as he stepped onto the rubber. He flexed his arms, the rugged Scottish sergeant practically vibrating with brute force. Maggie pushed off the wall, a wicked, completely unimpressed smirk on her face as she tied her hair back.

"Right then, Maggie," Soap chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "Hope ye brought a pillow."

"Please, Johnny," Maggie shot back, her eyes glinting with dangerous unpredictability. "You're all muscle and no brains. A big, predictable target."

Eve’s red curls were tightly secured in a neat bun, wearing a fitted black cropped long-sleeve top and matching black leggings that left her completely agile and barefoot. Opposite her, Ghost was wearing a black muscle tee, athletic shorts, and a plain black balaclava that clung tightly to his features—revealing the massive, scarred expanse of his bare shoulders and arms. He, too, stood barefoot on the canvas.

Smith turned his gaze directly onto Eve. "Eve. You’re with Ghost."

She didn't blink, but her fingers twitched slightly at her sides.

"Morgan," Smith explained, his voice ringing clearly through the quiet gym. "I need to see how you adapt your leverage against an enemy with a massive physical advantage. If a colossus like Ghost catches you, it's over. You need to rely on your speed and exploit his blind spots."

Price then turned his heavy gaze to Ghost, his voice dropping an octave. "I need to see how you handle an asymmetrical threat. An enemy who is faster than you, smaller, and entirely unpredictable. Don't hold back, but don't let her speed frustrate you into making sloppy mistakes."

The tension that flared between Eve and Ghost in that exact second was a brutal, physical thing. It was palpable, practically vibrating through the air.

Ghost slowly turned his head. Under the dark shadow of his cap, his eyes locked onto Eve with a heavy, unbroken intensity. He didn't say a word, but the sudden rise and fall of his chest betrayed the immediate spike of adrenaline.

Eve met his gaze head-on. She didn't flinch, forcing her racing heart to steady beneath her ribs, though a subtle flush of heat crept up her neck. She knew the stakes. Simon Riley didn't know how to play nice; he was a machine of pure, unadulterated violence. To prove herself here, she would have to dance on the edge of a razor blade, using every ounce of her agility to avoid being crushed by his weight.

The opening bout set a heavy, unforgiving tone. Price versus Smith. It wasn’t a display of blinding speed or flashing kicks, but a masterclass in heavy strategy and brute experience. Price and Smith locked up immediately, the dull thuds of their feet against the canvas echoing through the quiet gym. Smith used a classic Greco-Roman clinch, attempting to override Price’s center of gravity, but Price was a brick wall. He countered with raw, heavy-set leverage, slipping a hand inside Smith’s guard to execute a bruising hip toss that sent both men crashing to the mat. They rolled, heavy limbs tangling as they fought for a choke, until Price managed to trap Smith's arm in a tight, vice-like lock. It was a duel of mutual respect, ending in a clean, tactical stalemate when Smith tapped the mat, both men rising with grim, knowing nods.

Next up, Gaz and Kane brought a completely different energy to the floor. Gaz was a surgeon—disciplined, methodical, and flawlessly aligned in his stance. Kane, however, was a relentless anvil, grounding himself to the mat with a heavy, lethal posture. Gaz circled him like a hawk, snapping out a series of lightning-fast jabs to test Kane's guard. He managed to slip past Kane’s defense, dropping low for a double-leg takedown, but Kane anticipated the drop. Using his massive core strength, Kane stuffed the takedown, pinning Gaz beneath his weight and driving his forearm across Gaz’s chest to sap his breath. Gaz struggled beautifully, using a masterclass of defensive jiu-jitsu to shrimp out and reset, but the message was clear: discipline had to fight for every single millimeter against sheer, uncompromising mass.

The temperature in the room spiked when Soap and Maggie stepped onto the rubber. Soap was practically vibrating with rugged Scottish energy, flexing his massive arms with a wide grin. Maggie met him with a wicked, entirely unimpressed smirk. The moment Price called the start, Soap lunged forward with a heavy, straightforward bear-hug, aiming to use his massive weight advantage to end it quickly.

But Maggie was pure smoke. She slipped out of his grip with an unorthodox, loose-limbed drop, catching Soap entirely by surprise as she hooked her foot behind his ankle and drove a sharp elbow into his hip. Soap stumbled, barking out a laugh as he crashed to one knee. "Bloody hell!" he grinned, scrambling back up. Maggie didn't give him room to breathe; she used a flurry of chaotic, erratic feints that kept Soap’s brute force entirely off-balance. It was a beautiful, chaotic mess of light jabs, dirty slips, and a constant barrage of muttered insults until Soap finally managed to trap her in a heavy side-control, pinning her down through sheer weight. Maggie tapped his shoulder, thoroughly amused, whispering, "You're still a predictable brute, Johnny," while Soap grinned back, wiped sweat from his forehead, and offered her a hand up.

Then, Smith and Price looked toward the last remaining operators.

Beside Eve, Maggie leaned in just an inch, her voice a low, barely audible murmur that didn't disturb the heavy silence of the room. "You can't let him get close, Eve."

Eve didn't break her focus. Her eyes remained completely locked on the giant across from her, her jaw tightening as she replied in a tight, hushed tone, "I know."

Price turned his heavy gaze to Ghost, stepping closer to his Lieutenant. His voice dropped an octave, authoritative and sharp. "She is fast, Ghost. Keep it sharp."

Ghost didn't shift his stance. He didn't take his dark, burning eyes off Eve for even a fraction of a second. The only response he gave was a single, slow, deliberate nod—a silent acknowledgement that he heard the warning, but his focus was already entirely consumed by the woman standing on the opposite edge of the mat.

Eve held a rubber training knife, her stance low, tracking Ghost like a hawk. Suddenly, she lunged with blinding speed. Ghost deflected the first two vicious, lightning-fast slashes, using his forearms to intercept and redirect her wrists with blunt, defensive blocks, the sharp friction of skin against skin throwing off her trajectory as the dull thuds echoed in the quiet room. On the third, she flicked her wrist with lethal, deceptive precision, launching the blade directly at his face. Ghost jerked his head back, but he wasn't fast enough to clear it entirely; the blunt tip tore across the fabric of his balaclava, missing his eye by millimeters. The knife clattered uselessly against the mats.

"Fucking hell!" Soap barked from the sidelines, leaning forward. "She nearly took his eye off!"

"That's a Banshee for you, MacTavish," Maggie smirked, her arms crossed, though her posture was taut.

As Ghost stepped in to close the distance, Eve met him with a devastating, whip-like assault. She threw a lightning-fast right hook that Ghost barely managed to parry, but the impact was merely a feint. Using the kinetic energy, she immediately spun, launching a dynamic roundhouse kick that cracked against the side of Ghost's head, her bare foot meeting the fabric of his balaclava with a sickening thud.

"Good night," Kane murmured, a rare grin cutting his stern face. "The big man's rattling."

"He's fine," Gaz countered tightly, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the forms. "But she's faster than he expected. Much faster."

Ghost staggered, the world tilting for a fraction of a second, but his training instantly took over. As Eve pivoted on her heel to deliver a second kick aimed at his temple, Ghost anticipated the arc. He ducked under the spinning blade of her leg, moving into her space before she could reset her stance. He lunged inward, grabbing her around the waist, and slammed her back-first against the mats with a bone-jarring impact.

"Down!" Soap cheered. "Keep her there, L.T.!"

But Eve didn't stay down. She didn't even fight the fall; she absorbed it, using the momentum of the floor to roll onto her shoulders. Before Ghost could drop his weight to pin her, she snapped her legs out in a lethal, scissor-like motion. She hooked her heel behind his ankle and drove her other shin into his knee, executing a perfect sweep from the ground.

The sudden removal of his foundation sent Ghost—a mountain of moving iron—crashing to the mats with a deafening thud.

"Holy shit!" Maggie cheered, throwing her hands up. "That's how you do it, Eve! Put the giant down!"

Eve was on top of him in a second, delivering a heavy hammer-fist to his chest, but Ghost countered instantly from the guard. He trapped her arm, twisting her joint with terrifying leverage until she had to roll away to avoid a clean break. He was back up before she could find her feet, his breath a guttural growl under the mask.

For a few seconds, they were a blur of tactical precision, an exchange of blocks, parries, and short, brutal strikes that neither side could cleanly land.

"They're going to kill each other at this rate," Gaz muttered, glancing over at Price, who was quietly chewing on an unlit cigar, his eyes dark with calculation.

Ghost seized a momentary lapse in her rhythm. He lunged with the predatory speed of a coiled spring. In one explosive motion, he buried his shoulder into her chest to break her center of gravity. Before she could stabilize, Ghost snaked a thick arm around her waist, cinching her against his massive frame, while his other forearm clamped across her throat in a crushing, professional-grade choke.

He hauled her completely off her feet, his feet digging deep into the rubber mats as he used his superior mass to override her resistance. Eve clawed at his arm, her fingers digging deep into his skin, but Ghost was immovable.

He surged forward, aiming to crush her against the wall bounding the mats. But Eve was too fast; she brought her knees up, bracing both feet flat against the protective wall padding to halt his momentum. The two of them froze for a heartbeat—a desperate, trembling struggle of raw strength against tactical leverage. Ghost’s muscles bulged visibly under his shirt, his feet skidding on the mats as he was forced back a step by her bracing.

With a guttural growl of pure, unadulterated exertion, Ghost redoubled his effort. He twisted his torso, breaking her foot-hold, and launched them both forward with the force of a freight train. There was no escaping it this time.

He slammed her front-first into the heavy, vinyl-covered padding of the wall. Even with the protective foam absorbing the brunt of the collision, the impact was crushing; her body took the full weight of Ghost’s mass plus the velocity of his charge. The air left her lungs in a choked, agonized gasp, and the dull thud echoed through the cavernous gym like a death knell.

"Price, call it," Smith said, his voice dropping its casual edge as he stepped closer to the boundary.

But Eve wasn't finished. With a sudden, desperate snarl, she threw her head back. The back of her head slammed into the solid ridge of Ghost’s brow in a sharp, glancing blow. The snapping impact forced his head back, making him see stars as a small line of blood immediately bloomed from his split brow beneath the balaclava, the warmth of it seeping down toward his eye and over his mask.

His grip loosened, and Ghost stumbled a few steps backward, blinking through the sudden blur in his vision. It was all the space she needed. Eve launched herself into the air, pivoting her entire body to drive her feet straight into his chest with a massive, double-legged kick. It was a high-velocity strike, powered by the full recoil of her core, hitting him with the force of a battering ram.

The impact was absolute. It overrode Ghost’s massive frame, throwing him backward until his feet lost their purchase. He hit the mats with a heavy, hollow thud.

Eve didn't land cleanly either. The sheer kinetic backlash of driving both feet into a man of Ghost's mass sent her reeling backward, her feet failing to find grip as she crashed back to the mats. She rolled once, her teeth gritted against the sudden flare of agony in her torso, before forcing herself up with a jagged, desperate movement.

She scrambled back, her feet skidding on the mats as she struggled to stay upright. The exchange had been brutal; the collision had crushed the remaining air from her lungs, leaving her ribs screaming in protest. She stumbled until she hit the wall again, leaning heavily against it, one hand pressed firmly to her side to keep her chest from collapsing under the weight of her ragged, painful gasps.

She looked back at Ghost, watching the man who had just nearly broken her.

Ghost, fighting the darkness closing in on his vision, managed a violent heave to force a single, scraping shoulder off the mats pushing himself upward. The breath locked in his throat, coming in shallow, wet hitches as he held her gaze. The blood was dripping steadily from his brow, staining the black fabric a dark, wet crimson.

Before either of them could launch themselves forward again, a heavy hand stepped between them.

"That's enough! Step back!" Price’s voice boomed through the gym, cutting the air like a knife. He stood right between them, his gaze stern as he looked from a bleeding Ghost to a panting Eve. "Exercise over. Both of you, draw breath."

An intense, ringing silence settled over the room. No one moved.

Eve let one of her knees drop heavily to the mat, her trembling hand still clutched firmly against her aching ribs as she let out a low, raggedly whispered, "Fuck..."

Ghost slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position on the mats, wiping the dark crimson blood. His dark eyes remained fixed entirely on Eve, completely refusing to break the connection.

The heavy, stunned silence of the room lingered for only a fraction of a second longer before Soap’s booming voice shattered it completely, leaning over the boundary line with a wild, disbelieving grin.

"Who won!!??" ******* The iron tang of the gym was quieter the following morning, the post-sparring tension from the previous day still lingering like a low hum in the air.

Near the free weights, Soap and Maggie were completely dominating the space, their laughter echoing off the concrete walls. Maggie was leaning against a squat rack, twirling a light resistance band around her wrist, while Soap was halfway through a set of casual bicep curls, deliberately showing off and making a show of grunt-work just to get a rise out of her. A few feet away, completely detached from their banter, Ghost was repping heavy shoulder presses. A neat row of butterfly stitches held the split skin of his brow together. He was a wall of silent, intense concentration.

The heavy glass doors of the gym hissed open, and Eve walked in.

Her dark red curls were tied up again, her posture slightly stiff as her ribs protested every breath. As she crossed the threshold, she spotted the trio instantly. For a split second, her gaze brushed past Soap and Maggie's joking, but then it locked onto Ghost.

Ghost didn't stop his count, but the rhythm of his breathing shifted. He held her gaze through the reflection of the gym mirror, his dark eyes tracking her with the same heavy, unbroken intensity from the day before. Eve didn't break the connection until she had bypassed their zone completely, heading straight for the row of treadmills at the far end of the floor.

Maggie pushed off the squat rack, a massive, wicked smirk spread across her face as she looked Eve up and down, her eyes zeroing in on the exposed skin of Eve's collarbone. "Nice scarf, Morgan! Tell the Lieutenant to buy you dinner before he chokes you like that."

Soap let out a loud, choked bark of laughter, nearly dropping his dumbbell.

Eve without turning around hit the power button on the treadmill console, and raised her middle finger high into the air over her shoulder.

"Fuck you, Margaret!" Eve shouted back, her voice dripping with dry, unbothered sarcasm.

Soap doubled over, slapping his knee as Maggie burst into loud, victorious cackles, thoroughly amused by her own joke and the sharp retaliation. "Love you too, boss!" Maggie yelled back.

Ghost’s entire frame went dead still. The heavy barbell froze mid-air, his massive forearms locking out as his muscles visibly bunched and hardened under his skin. The casual, dirty banter had struck a raw nerve, dragging the phantom sensation of her skin under his hands right back to the surface. He slowly lowered the weight back onto the rack with a heavy, deliberate clang, his eyes burning into the back of Eve's head as the treadmill began to hum to life.

********

It was late, well past midnight, and the aisles of the Hereford market were mostly deserted, illuminated by the low, continuous hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Eve walked stiffly down the healthcare aisle, her hand subconsciously pressing against her left side. She stopped in front of the shelves, her eyes scanning the rows of anti-inflammatories, looking for something strong enough to dull the constant, aching burn.

A shadow fell over the aisle.

Eve didn't even need to look up to know who it was. The heavy, quiet tread of combat boots—it was unmistakable.

Ghost stopped a few feet away, a basket in his hand containing a fresh roll of medical tape and a bottle of heavy-duty painkillers. He was wearing his civilian gear: the black baseball cap pulled low, the black face mask covering his jaw, and a dark jacket that made his massive shoulders look even more intimidating in the tight aisle. Above the mask, right at the ridge of his brow, a neat strip of white medical tape covered the butterfly stitches she had given him.

Eve straightened up slowly and his gaze. The two of them, surrounded by plastic bottles of aspirin and the quiet hum of the building.

Ghost’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the subtle, rigid hitch in her posture. For a second, the suffocating weight of the previous day flared between them—the memory of her skin under his hands, the violent recoil of her double-legged kick, the shared blood on the canvas.

Breaking the heavy spell, Ghost gave her a single, sharp, excessively formal nod.

Eve matched it, her expression smoothing into a mask of cool, professional detachment. "Riley," she acknowledged tightly.

"Morgan," his gravelly voice vibrated through the mask, completely devoid of emotion.

Without another word, Ghost turned on his heel and walked down the aisle. Eve let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, grabbed her medication, and followed at a deliberate distance.

When Eve stepped into the supermarket's exit vestibule, she stopped.

Outside, the British sky had completely ruptured. A torrential, violent downpour was slamming against the tarmac, the rain falling in thick, silver sheets that obliterated any visibility past a few meters.

She lived exactly four blocks away. It was supposed to be a quick, clearing walk.

Eve closed her eyes, letting out a sharp, irritated breath that fogged the glass. "Fuck..." she muttered under her breath.

She shifted the heavy paper shopping bag to her right hand, but the sudden movement pulled on her bruised intercostal muscles. A sharp spike of agony shot through her torso. She stilled, waiting for the cramp to pass before she could pull her hoodie's cap over her head.

A massive figure stepped up right beside her, cutting off the draft from the automatic doors.

Ghost's dark eyes fixed on her hand clutching her side, then on the paper bag, and finally on the wall of water outside. He looked clinical, calculating, and entirely immovable.

Eve caught her breath, forcing her face back into a neutral expression. She took a stubborn step toward the rain.

Before her boot could touch the wet concrete outside, a heavy hand clamped gently but firmly around her forearm, halting her in her tracks. The heat of his grip burned straight through the fabric of her sleeve.

"You're going to drown out there, Morgan," Ghost said, his voice a low, dark rumble over the sound of the crashing rain. He didn't let go of her arm immediately, his thumb resting right against her pulse point. "And your ribs won't survive the shivering. Get in the truck."

Eve looked down at his hand on her arm, then up into his eyes. Her heart did a sudden, traitorous skip against her ribs, the adrenaline spiking in her veins. "I can walk, Riley. It's only a few blocks."

"I wasn't asking," Ghost replied flatly. He let go of her arm and reached down, effortlessly taking the heavy bag from her hand before she could argue. "Let's go."

The drive was silent, filled only with the rhythmic, heavy thud of the windshield wipers fighting the storm and the low hum of the truck's heater. Ghost drove with one hand on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the dark, flooded streets of Hereford, while Eve stared out the passenger window.

When the truck pulled up to the curb outside her brick apartment building, the rain was still relentless.

Eve reached over to the floorboards to grab her bag, but her fingers had barely brushed it before Ghost’s hand was there again, blocking her.

"I've got it," he muttered.

Before she could protest, he threw his door open, stepping out into the absolute downpour. Eve cursed softly under her breath, pushed her door open, and stepped out into the storm.

The rain hit them. Within three seconds, the freezing water had soaked through Eve’s hoodie, the sudden chill making her muscles seize painfully. Ghost was already around the hood of the truck, the heavy bag tucked securely in one arm, using his massive body to shield her from the worst of the wind as they hurried toward the small awning of her building's entrance.

They scrambled under the narrow concrete ledge, both of them breathing hard, drenched and dripping water onto the tiled steps.

Eve wiped a stream of cold water from her eyes, pushing her wet red curls out of her face. She turned to look at him, about to thank him and take her bag, but the words died in her throat.

The dark baseball cap was soaked, and the heavy moisture had caused the white medical tape on his brow to peel away. The wet adhesive had given out entirely, leaving the patch hanging loose, dripping water mixed with a faint pink tinge of diluted blood where the split skin of his brow had softened under the deluge.

Eve looked at the ruined dressing, her eyes softening just a fraction into something dangerous—something intimate.

"Your tape," she murmured, stepping an inch closer into his personal space, her hand rising instinctively toward his face before she could stop herself. "It's ruined."

Ghost stood entirely still, his chest rising and falling heavily. He didn't pull away from her hand, but his gaze darkened, the silence between them thick with a sudden, suffocating intensity.

Eve lowered her hand slowly, swallowing hard against the spike of adrenaline. "Come up," she offered, her voice lower now, striking a delicate balance between a professional courtesy and something far more reckless. "Let me change that dressing. I have a proper kit upstairs. Besides, you look like you could use a drink."

His entire body locked up, his mind visibly warring with his usual instinct to retreat into the shadows of the base. For a few agonizing seconds, he just stared at her, the rain drumming violently against the concrete awning. Then, with a sudden, almost impulsive jerk of his jaw, he gave a single, gruff nod.

"Lead the way."

The warmth of the apartment hit them the moment Eve unlocked the door, a sharp contrast to the freezing storm outside.

Before Ghost could even take a full step across the threshold, a large, fluffy white Angora cat materialized from the hallway. The feline moved with slow, regal confidence, immediately sliding its pristine white coat against the soaked, mud-splattered fabric of Ghost’s tactical trousers.

Eve stepped inside, kicking off her wet boots. "That's Reaper”.

Ghost stared down at the creature, his massive frame completely out of place in the warm entryway, then glanced up at her, looking entirely lost on how to react to a domestic house pet. "Don't worry, he doesn't bite."

Ghost’s brow furrowed slightly under his wet hair, his dark eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher whether she was mocking him or actually giving a tactical warning about a house cat.

A faint, genuinely amused smile tugged at the corner of Eve's lips as she looked back at him. "I was talking to the cat."

She walked past him toward the kitchen, unzipping her soaked hoodie. She peeled the heavy, wet cotton off her shoulders and tossed it into the laundry basket. Beneath it, she was wearing only a tight black long-sleeve compression shirt. The sleek, second-skin fabric hugged every curve of her upper body tightly, leaving her neck completely exposed—revealing the distinct, raw marks of his grip still lingering darkly against her skin.

Ghost’s eyes instantly locked onto her collarbone. His gaze traced the dark shaped shadows on her skin, his jaw clenching hard beneath the mask as a wave of unadulterated possessiveness and quiet guilt hit him.

He had already kicked off his heavy, mud-splattered combat boots by the door, leaving him barefoot on the floor. He moved silently into the kitchen, setting the grocery bag flat on the table. With deliberate, heavy movements, he unbuttoned his soaked jacket and shed it, placing it over the back of a chair along with his dripping baseball cap. He inhaled deeply, a long, ragged breath, before reaching up with both hands. He unhooked the black mask from his ears and pulled it off his face.

Everything he wore was damp, his dark hair clinging to his forehead, framing his sharp, scarred jawline and the intense, rugged symmetry of his face.

Eve had been rummaging through a cabinet, finally pulling out a professional-grade medical kit. But when she turned around to face him, her movements halted entirely.

She froze, completely caught off guard, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at him without the mask. The raw, striking reality of his face—the scars crossing his lips, the sheer masculinity of his features, and those piercing, dark eyes—left her utterly paralyzed.

The silence in the kitchen stretched, thick and electric. Their eyes met, holding with an intensity that burned hotter than the physical pain in their bodies. Neither moved. Neither blinked.

Eve finally broke the spell, a subtle flush creeping up her neck as she forced herself to snap back into her professional mindset. She set the medical kit on the table and pointed to a chair, her voice slightly breathless but firm.

"Sit down. Let me fix your face." Ghost sat and kept his head perfectly still. He looked like a statue carved out of war and shadow, his dark eyes tracking her every movement with unsettling precision.

Eve stepped into his personal space, the scent of his skin filling her senses. She worked focused and clinic, her hands steady as she cleaned the cut on his brow. The brush of her fingers against his skin felt electric, a contrast that made the air in the kitchen hum. She kept her touch strictly professional, surgical, but every time her knuckles grazed his temple or her breath hitched near his ear, the silence between them thickened.

He didn't move a muscle, but she could feel the heat radiating off him, a dormant furnace barely held in check.

As she applied a fresh strip of adhesive, her focus slipped. She felt the heavy weight of his gaze drift down from his brow. He was staring at the purple, mottled bruises that bloomed along the line of her throat—the physical testament of their fight on the mat.

He looked at the marks with a possessiveness that made the skin beneath her compression shirt prickle.

Eve didn't look up, but her jaw tightened. "I'm fine, Riley," she murmured, her voice a low, warning rasp. "Stop staring."

Ghost’s gaze snapped away instantly, his eyes fixing on a spot on the opposite wall, his jaw clenching hard. He forced himself back into a rigid, defensive posture, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, controlled cadence.

Eve pressed the dressing into place with perhaps a little more pressure than necessary, her fingers lingering for a fraction of a second too long against the warmth of his temple. She forced herself to pull back, her composure slipping just enough to show how much his presence rattled her.

She packed the kit away, her movements sharp.

"Done."

She didn't wait for his reaction. Eve turned on her heel and walked to the cupboard, needing the distance, needing the mundane distraction of something to do with her hands. She pulled down a bottle of high-end whiskey and two tumblers, her back to him as she poured a generous amount into both.

She walked back to the table and set a glass down in front of him, the amber liquid catching the light. She didn't sit; she remained standing, leaning against the counter, her eyes searching his face—now unmasked and unguarded—as she took a slow, steadying sip of her own drink.

"To take the edge off," she said softly, her voice barely cutting through the quiet of the room. "You look like you could use it."

The glasses of whiskey sat between them on the wooden table, the amber liquid catching the low, warm light of the kitchen. Outside, the storm still lashed against the windowpanes, but inside, the silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic clinking of ice against glass.

Ghost sat heavily in the chair, his massive frame dominating the space. The fresh butterfly stitches Eve had just applied sat clean against his brow. He swirled the liquor in his glass, his dark eyes fixed on the amber swirl before he slowly lifted his gaze.

He took a slow, deliberate sip, the burn of the alcohol mirroring the heat still simmering between them.

"You should have tapped," Ghost said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that cut through the quiet room.

Eve leaned back slightly, her fingers wrapping around her own glass, her eyes locking onto his unmasked face with unwavering defiance. "I was breathing just fine, Riley."

"You were a second away from going dark," he shot back flatly, his jaw clenching. "Pure stubbornness. It’s going to get you killed."

"You were a second away from losing an eye," Eve countered, a dangerous, sharp little smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned forward just an inch, ignoring the protest of her ribs. "A bit sloppy for a Ghost, don't you think? Getting rattled by a Banshee."

Ghost’s eyes darkened. He set his glass down with a soft but deliberate thud, leaning toward her, invading her space without moving from his seat.

"That headbutt was a cheap trick, Morgan. Dirt."

"It worked," she whispered, her gaze dropping to his mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to his eyes. "You let go."

"Because I chose to," Ghost rumbled, his voice dropping into a deeper, predatory register that vibrated straight through her skin. His eyes locked onto the faint marks on her throat, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass with agonizing slowness. "In the field, I don't let go. No matter how hard you hit."

The air between them became thick, suffocatingly tight, charged with a lethal mixture of competitive friction and raw, unadulterated attraction.

Eve’s breath hitched slightly, but she didn't back down. She raised her glass to him, her eyes burning into his. "Good thing we aren't in the field then."

Ghost stared at her for a long, agonizing heartbeat, his chest rising and falling heavily as he fought the sudden, violent urge to reach across the small table and prove to her exactly what happened when he didn't let go. Instead, he slowly picked up his glass, clinked it against hers with a sharp, metallic sound, and drank the rest of his whiskey in one dry swallow, his eyes never leaving hers.

The bottle of whiskey lay empty between them, a silent casualty of the hours that had slipped past with the storm. Ghost wasn't drunk—a man of his mass didn't go down that easily—but the alcohol had softened the sharp edges of his exhaustion, rendering his reaction times just sluggish enough to make driving a heavy truck through a torrential downpour a tactical liability.

He knew it. And he hated it.

Ghost set his glass down, the heavy thud signaling the end of the truce. He pushed his chair back, his massive frame rising slowly, dominating the small kitchen once more. He reached for his damp jacket and his cap, his movements deliberate as he forced his walls right back up.

"Where are you going?" Eve asked, her voice steady, though her eyes tracked his every movement.

"Base," Ghost muttered, his voice rougher, thick with the gravel of the liquor and the sudden urge to flee her space.

"You're not driving in this, Riley. You've had too much."

Ghost stopped, his back to her as he pulled the dark jacket over his broad shoulders. He didn't look at her. "I'll sleep in the truck. Rain will clear by dawn."

Eve let out a sharp, disbelief-filled breath, her chair scraping against the floor as she stood up, ignoring the dull ache in her ribs. She stepped into his path, blocking the exit to the hallway. "You’re so bloody stubborn. You’re soaked, your stitches are fresh, and it’s freezing outside. You are not sleeping in a target-box of a vehicle because you're too terrified to stay in a warm room."

Ghost snapped his head down, his dark eyes burning into hers. The proximity was suffocating. He stepped into her personal space, looming over her, trying to use his sheer size to make her back down. "My truck works just fine."

"You don't scare me, Riley," Eve shot back, her chin tilting up defensively, refusing to yield an inch of ground to his intimidation. She reached out, her fingers locking tightly around the lapel of his jacket, anchoring him. "You stay here. That's an order from the owner of the place."

Ghost froze, his eyes dropping to her hand on his chest, then snapping back to her face. His jaw ticked violently. He could have broken her grip in half a second, could have pushed past her and vanished into the rain. But the heat of her fingers through the fabric, combined with the heavy pull of the whiskey and the sheer, unyielding audacity of her stare, paralyzed him.

For five long, agonizing seconds, the kitchen was dead silent except for their synchronized, heavy breathing.

"The couch," Ghost rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, defeated growl.

Eve didn't let go of his jacket immediately, her thumb brushing the wet fabric before she slowly dropped her hand. "The couch. I'll get you a blanket."

It was nearly three in the morning. Ghost hadn't slept a wink. He lay flat on the couch, his massive frame completely taking up the small piece of furniture. He was wearing only his dark tactical trousers and the tight black tactical shirt that stretched over his massive shoulders. One hand rested flat against his chest, while the back of his other arm lay over his brow, his dark eyes staring unblinkingly at the dark ceiling. He was a statue of pure, restless tension.

A soft rustle of fabric cut through the quiet.

Ghost’s arm didn't move, but his eyes instantly tracked the movement across the room. Eve had stepped out of her bedroom. She walked silently into the kitchen, heading toward the counter to pour herself a glass of water. She was wearing an oversized, faded grey t-shirt that hung loose over low-slung, baggy sweatpants. She leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, her head dropping back as she took a long sip, her shoulders tensing slightly as if she were wrestling with the residual ache in her body—or the sheer, electric awareness of who was lying in her living room.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Ghost took his arm off his face and sat up. The wood beneath his bare feet didn't make a single sound as he shifted his weight. He didn't say a word; he just leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his piercing gaze locked entirely onto her silhouette in the penumbra.

Eve turned around, holding the glass. She felt the heavy weight of his stare long before she looked up, but when she did, she didn’t back down. She met his eyes across the dark space, holding his gaze with absolute defiance.

The silence between them instantly sharpened, the air growing thick and dangerous. It was the exact same feeling as being out on the training mat—two predators sizing each other up, measuring the distance, waiting for the first strike.

Eve set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink. A slow, provocative smile tugged at the corner of her lips, her eyes narrowing as she broke the quiet. "Want me to hit you again so you can finally fall asleep, Riley?"

That was it. The absolute limit of his restraint.

With the whisky still warm in his veins and his patience entirely worn through, Ghost rose from the couch. He didn't just walk toward her; he stalked her. At nearly two meters of raw, intimidating muscle, he moved across the kitchen like a shadow, completely cutting off her exit and caging her against the counter. He was the kind of man who made entire armies run, but Eve stood her ground, her chin tilting up to face him.

As he closed the distance, the loose collar of Eve's oversized shirt slipped sideways, sliding off her shoulder and exposing the bare, pale skin of her collarbone and the soft curve of her neck. Ghost’s gaze dropped to it, his eyes burning with an intensity so raw it felt like he was stripping her bare right where she stood. Inside her chest, Eve’s heart began to hammer violently at a thousand miles an hour, the adrenaline spiking hot through her blood.

Ghost invaded her space entirely, his massive chest nearly brushing against hers, his scent wrapping around her completely.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand came up. His fingers went straight to her throat, right over the dark, purple bruises he had left there the day before. He didn't squeeze, but his grip was unyielding and firm as he tilted her chin upward, forcing her head back to expose the long, vulnerable line of her throat to him.

His thumb slowly traced the path of the marks, moving up the tight line of her jaw, down to the delicate bone of her collar, mapping out the damage he had done. Beneath his palm, he could feel it—the frantic, erratic thud of her pulse racing against his skin.

Eve’s breath hitched, but instead of pulling away, her hand flew up, her fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist, anchoring his hand against her neck.

Ghost leaned down, his face mere inches from hers, his ragged breath fanning across her skin. Eve’s eyes dropped instinctively, locking onto his lips, the tension between them stretched so tight it was about to snap.

With his other hand, he reached down and took a fistful of the loose fabric of her oversized shirt right at the collar, gripping it hard, pulling her slightly upward. He was entirely done fighting himself.

Eve’s hand shifted from his wrist, her fingers clawing into the fabric of his black tshirt, bunching the material in her fists as she yanked him down, forcing him to close the final, agonizing inch between them.

Simon met her halfway, his mouth crashing down onto hers in a brutal, hungry kiss. It was filled with a desperate, long-suppressed passion—a wild, unvarnished collision of teeth and lips that completely shattered the last of their walls.

Simon’s massive hands slid down the sides of her body, his palms burning through her clothes as he backed her trapped against the edge of the counter. Eve’s fingers hooked beneath the hem of his t-shirt, her nails lightly grazing the hard, scarred ridge of his abs as she pushed the fabric up, forcing him to rip it over his head and toss it blindly onto the floor. The sight of his bare, towering chest made her veins catch fire.

His hands were everywhere, tracing the sharp line of her ribs before sliding down to the waistband of her sweatpants. With a single, low growl of pure impatience, he tore them down her legs right there in the dim light of the kitchen. His large hands clamped onto her bare hips with bruising force, his thumbs digging deep into her skin as he effortlessly lifted her, placing her high onto the edge of the counter.

The impact of their naked skin was raw, completely devoid of gentle preludes. While his fingers tangled in the hem of her oversized shirt, bunching the fabric up to leave her breasts completely exposed to the cool air, Eve’s hands scrambled for his belt. She unbuckled his pants with frantic, trembling precision, pushing the heavy denim down his thighs until he was free.

Eve parted her legs, tilting her pelvis up to welcome him as Simon aligned his aching length directly with her center. He drove deep into her with a heavy, desperate thrust that buried him completely inside her, drawing a sharp, ragged gasp from her throat as her walls clamped tightly around him.

Eve locked her legs securely around his waist, her fingers clawing deep into the tight muscles of his back, pulling him closer, demanding every ounce of his crushing weight. Simon anchored himself, slamming one palm flat against the counter while his other hand surged upward, wrapping possessively around her throat. He didn't choke her, but the heavy, unyielding weight of his palm marked her skin once again.

Eve claimed his mouth in a bruising, desperate kiss as her hands tangled in his damp hair.

They moved together with a frantic, punishing rhythm. Every deep, bottomless drive from Simon sent a violent shudder through her core, the wet friction of their bodies and the heavy, breathless swearing echoing loudly in the dark room. He hammered into her, relentless and unyielding, until his entire body rigidified. With a low, primal growl that vibrated straight into her chest, he surged one final time, spilling his thick warmth deep inside her as Eve’s muscles convulsed around him in a blinding, crushing release.

But it wasn't enough. The friction only seemed to stoke a fire that had been buried for years.

By the time the first pale light of dawn began to bleed through the blinds on Saturday, they were on the living room floor. Simon was completely naked, his massive body casting a heavy shadow over her in the gray light. Eve’s oversized shirt was entirely gone, leaving her bare skin exposed to the rough carpet. He had her pinned flat beneath him, his heavy chest crushing her spine as he took her from behind. Simon’s thick fingers wrapped firmly around the dark red curls of her hair, tugging just hard enough to pull her head back, forcing an agonizingly beautiful arch in her spine. His teeth sank into the sensitive, flushed skin of her shoulder, biting her to anchor his weight while he drove into her soaking core from behind with slow, deep, deliberate strokes. Every heavy, bottomless thrust made the wooden floorboards creak, drawing raw, breathless cries from Eve’s throat as she took the full, unyielding depth of him.

As the morning progressed into noon, the air in the apartment became thick, suffocating, and entirely primal. They finally moved to the bed, but there was no rest. Eve straddled his massive lap, her knees gripping his thighs as she sat upright on him, slowly sinking down onto his thick, aching length until he was buried inside her completely. She set the pace, her hips moving in a relentless, agonizingly tight grinding rhythm that drew dark, guttural curses from his lips. Simon’s large hands locked onto her hips, his thumbs digging deep into her skin with bruising force to guide her, helping her slam down hard against his pelvis. His dark eyes were completely black, unblinking, utterly fixated on the movement of her breasts and the damp, intense flush that covered her skin as she rode him.

They didn't stop to eat; they drank water straight from the bottle, spilling cold droplets over their overheated skin. Their bodies were completely slick with sweat, the room smelling entirely of raw sex, spilled whiskey, and the deep, intoxicating scent of each other.

By the afternoon, the rain outside had stopped, but the heat inside was relentless. Ghost turned her over onto her stomach, shoving her face-down into the damp sheets. He pinned her limbs down, trapping her wrists against the mattress with one hand while his massive frame lined up behind her, invading her completely with a heavy, brutal rhythm that seemed designed to break any remaining resistance. Every time she tried to shift or fight for leverage, he pinned her tighter, his body a mountain of iron overriding her agility. His breathing was a harsh, rhythmic rasp directly in her ear, a low growl vibrating against her neck as he filled her over and over again, completely unbothered by the hours that had passed, claiming her center until she was entirely spent beneath him.

The heat between them shifted from explosive friction to a slow, suffocatingly intense focus.

In the shadows of the bedroom as evening fell, the sex became slower but infinitely more intense, heavy with a possessive weight.

Eve lay flat on her back, completely breathless, as Ghost’s massive hands slid down the insides of her thighs, using his brutal strength to force her legs wide open and pin them high over his broad shoulders. He leaned down, burying his face directly between her thighs. His rough tongue and heavy, demanding mouth struck her swollen, dripping center with ruthless precision.

Eve’s fingers tangled into his short, damp hair, her knuckles turning white as her hips arched desperately off the mattress, offering herself fully to his tongue. Lost in the overwhelming heat of it, her breath hitched, a desperate sob of pleasure breaking from her throat. "Fuck, Simon... don't stop... Fuck!

He devoured her without mercy, his lips driving her to the absolute edge until she unraveled completely, shattering against his mouth in a blinding, soaking climax that left her breathless screams muffled by the quiet of the room. He didn't give her a single second to recover; Ghost slid back up her body, slick with her own wetness, and drove himself back inside her with a heavy, possessive thrust that buried him to the root.

By the time night truly fell, the sweat, sex, and adrenaline had left their skin completely flushed and burning. Simon dragged her into the bathroom, turning the shower on until the space filled with thick, blinding steam. Ghost slammed her back against the wet tile, the hot water spraying over his massive shoulders as he lifted her by the thighs. Eve locked her legs tightly around his waist, her wet hair plastered to her neck as she clung to him. He guided himself inside her, the water making the friction slick and fast as he hammered her against the wall with a punishing, relentless rhythm. The sound of slapping skin and her gasps echoed over the roar of the shower. Every time her grip slipped on the wet tile, his massive arms tightened around her like iron bands, holding her up, taking her completely until they both reached a ragged, breathless climax under the steaming torrent.

They used each other until their muscles trembled, until their skin was covered in fresh friction burns and deep bruises, rolling over in the tangled, damp sheets to start again the moment their breathing slowed. It was non-stop, a relentless cycle of dominance and surrender that lasted until the early hours of Sunday morning, when exhaustion finally claimed them. They fell onto the stripped, damp mattress, completely spent, and slept heavily for the first time in days.

When the pale morning light of Sunday filtered through the blinds, Eve opened her eyes. For the first time, the heavy, electric tension in the room had settled into a quiet, profound calm. Simon was already awake. He was lying on his side, his head resting on his arm, staring at her in the quiet light. Without his mask, without his tactical gear, and having finally rested, his severe features looked entirely different—still dangerous, but completely unguarded. He didn't look away when she woke up. He just held her gaze in the silence, his dark eyes tracing the quiet rise and fall of her chest.

Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The quiet understanding between two predators who had thoroughly consumed each other hung thick in the air. Slowly, Ghost reached out, his hand sliding over the sheet to grip her hip, his thumb brushing against her skin. The touch wasn't gentle for long. The moment Eve shifted closer, pressing her bare leg against his, the embers of the entire weekend flared right back to life. Simon rolled over, pinning her beneath his weight once more, his mouth crashing down onto hers to claim her again. The shift in power between them was fluid, a constant trade of dominance and surrender that kept the air in the apartment thick with friction.

Simon hovered over her, settling his massive weight between her legs. He propped himself up on his forearms, framing her body with his iron build, bringing his face mere inches from hers. The frantic, desperate hunger of the weekend subsided, replaced by a suffocating, hyper-focused intensity. He slid inside her slowly. It was a deep, unhurried glide that filled her completely, making Eve’s breath hitch sharply in her throat.

"Look at me," Simon rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly command that vibrated against her skin.

Eve locked her eyes onto his, holding his piercing, dark gaze as he began to move. The pace was agonizingly slow, a relentless, heavy friction that forced them to feel every single millimeter of the connection. There was no hiding behind speed or adrenaline now. It was pure, unvarnished exposure. Ghost ground his hips against hers, his eyes burning into hers with a possessiveness that felt almost territorial, stripping away every defense she had left. Eve wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders, not to pull him faster, but to anchor herself against the sheer, overwhelming weight of his gaze. Every slow, deliberate thrust was a quiet battle of endurance, their breathing synchronizing into a heavy, rhythmic cadence in the quiet room. They stared at each other through the intensity, watching the pleasure register in the tight lines of each other's faces, until the slow burn finally ignited into a deep, crushing climax that left them both clinging to each other.

*********** Two days later, the rain had completely cleared over Hereford, leaving the tarmac crisp and dry. In the main hangar, the 141 was prepping for a routine gear inspection, but the usual heavy, grinding friction between them was completely gone.

It wasn't that they were being soft—they were far too professional for that—but the violent, snapping tension that usually occupied the space between them had evaporated, replaced by a quiet, absolute equilibrium.

Eve stood by the weapon racks, checking the sight on her sidearm. Ghost approached, his heavy combat boots echoing against the concrete. He didn't just stop beside her; he stepped right into her personal space, his massive shoulder deliberately brushing against hers. A week ago, Eve would have tensed or stepped back. Today, she instinctively leaned into the contact, anchoring herself against his weight for a fraction of a second.

"Morgan," Ghost rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register meant strictly for her ears.

"Riley," Eve replied smoothly. She didn't lift her eyes immediately, but a subtle, relaxed warmth settled into her shoulders at his near presence.

Ghost reached out, his large, gloved hand picking up a spare magazine from the bench. He didn't just place it down; his fingers slid it directly into her palm, his thumb dragging deliberately across the sensitive skin of her inner wrist—right over her pulse point. It was a slow, heavy touch that burned hot, a silent, private reminder of how he had held her down just forty-eight hours ago.

"Price wants the inventory updated before the 0800 briefing. Ensure your field reports are finalized."

"Already on his desk," Eve murmured.

She finally looked up, locking her eyes with his dark ones behind the mesh. Her lips twitched with a faint, knowing smile. There was no defiance, no armor between them anymore. Just the deep, shared secret of two predators who had thoroughly broken each other.

"Anything else?" she asked, her voice carrying a quiet, weighted undertone that only he could catch.

Ghost stared down at her through the eye slit of his mask. His gaze dropped deliberately to her high collar, tracing the exact line where he knew his bruises were hidden beneath the fabric, before rising back to her eyes. His chest expanded in a slow, deep breath, his posture relaxing in a way he never allowed around anyone else.

"No," Ghost rumbled, the word almost a caress in its roughness. "Carry on."

He turned and walked away toward the briefing room. Eve watched him go, her eyes trailing the broad line of his shoulders for a beat longer before returning to her gear, her composure flawless but her blood running beautifully hot.

A few yards away, leaning against a stack of supply crates, Soap was chewing on a toothpick, his eyes darting between the two of them. Maggie was sitting nearby, cleaning the lens of her optics.

Soap leaned in closer to Maggie, lowering his voice. "Mags. Tell me I’m no' seeing ghosts."

"What are you rambling about, MacTavish?" Maggie asked without looking up.

"The L.T.," Soap muttered, nodding subtly toward the empty corridor. "He just stood right in Morgan’s space, and neither of them flinched. And did ye see his collar? His tactical scarf is pulled up so high it’s practically covering his bloody ears. In this heat?"

Maggie finally looked up, her sharp eyes shifting from Eve—who was calmly loading her magazine—to the doorway. She frowned slightly. "Morgan’s uniform is high today too. Completely covering her neck."

Soap’s eyes widened, a grin spreading across his face as the pieces clicked together. "No... You think they actually...?"

"If they did, keep your mouth shut, Johnny," Maggie interrupted, her voice dropping to a warning whisper as Eve began walking in their direction. "Unless you want the L.T. to put you on latrine duty for the next three months."

"I'm just saying," Soap whispered quickly, straightening up and flashing a completely innocent grin as Eve approached. "The weather's definitely changed around here."

******* The heavy metal door of Ghost’s quarters hadn’t even clicked shut before they were tearing into each other.

The lock engaged with a sharp snap, and the sound was instantly swallowed by the ragged gasp Eve let out as Simon crowded her, his massive hands sliding up to tangle deep into the hair at the back of her neck. He tilted her face up, dominating her completely as his mouth crashed down on hers—dark, breathless, and starved, completely erasing the rigid composure they had maintained all day down in the hangar. Eve’s fingers clawed frantically at his tactical jacket, ripping it off his heavy shoulders along with his shirt, her hands searching for the raw warmth of his scarred skin without breaking the bruising rhythm of their mouths.

Simon's hands hooked under the hem of her tactical hoodie, tugging the thick fabric upward with a rough, impatient jerk. Eve reached up, her arms tangling in the sleeves as he peeled the heavy layer over her head and tossed it blindly onto the floor, leaving her in just a sports bra. Without breaking the kiss, his broad, bare chest pressed hard against hers, driving her backward. His large fingers hooked into the band of her sports bra, stripping it up her arms to bare her breasts to the cool air, before shifting down to pop the snap of her combat pants. He navigated the dark room by sheer instinct until the back of her knees hit the edge of his bed.

With a heavy, deliberate shove against her, Simon sent her tumbling backward onto the mattress.

Eve hit the sheets with a soft thud, her breath hitching, but she didn't lose her grip on him. Her fingers immediately shot down to the waistband of his tactical trousers. While Simon hovered over her, his dark eyes burning down into hers through the shadows of the room, Eve’s hands worked frantically, unbuckling his heavy belt and popping the fastenings of his pants with a swift, desperate urgency. She yanked at the heavy zipper, her knuckles brushing against the hot, leaking ridge of his thick length already straining hard against the fabric.

Simon let out a low, guttural growl at the touch. He dropped to his knees right between her thighs. With firm, frantic movements, he unlaced her heavy combat boots and yanked them off, letting them hit the floor with heavy thuds. He didn't waste a second, hooking his fingers into the waist of her pants and underwear, stripping them down her legs in one violent tug.

Now completely naked beneath him, Eve arched her back as his massive body came crashing down over hers again. Simon gripped her hips, lifting her slightly, and with one brutal, single thrust, he drove his entire length deep inside her soaking-wet core. A sensual cry tore from Eve’s throat, instantly smothered as Simon buried his face into the crook of her neck, letting out a deep, primal growl that vibrated straight through her skin.

He didn't ease into it. Simon began to hammer into her with a punishing, relentless force, his heavy hips slamming against hers over and over again. Eve locked her tighs tightly around his waist, her nails digging deep into his muscular shoulders as she pushed him even closer, demanding every agonizingly deep stroke. She kissed and bit his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat as he possessed her body in the dark, filling her completely again and again and again.

The room was dead quiet. Simon lay flat on his back on the bed, staring unblinkingly at the dark ceiling. His massive chest rose and fell in a slow, heavy cadence. His tactical trousers were slung low on his hips, unbuttoned, and his upper body was completely bare, his skin cooling down as the sweat dried against his scars. Right next to him, Eve was fast asleep, her breathing soft and even, one of her bare arms slung possessively across his stomach, her body curled tightly against his side.

He didn't move. He didn't want to wake her.

Instead, his dark eyes shifted sideways, tracking the silhouette of her shoulder in the dim light. His chest bore the fresh, red marks of her fingernails; his neck still stung where she had bitten him when he drove into her. For a man who had spent the last decade of his life building impenetrable concrete walls around himself, the reality of the last days was staggering.

He had expected the weekend to be a release—a violent, feral purging of the tension that had been building between them on the base. He had thought that once they used each other until their muscles bled and their endurance broke, the hunger would subside. That he’d be able to put the skull mask back on, pull the tactical scarf up to his ears, and go back to being the efficient, cold bastard the military needed him to be.

He had been completely wrong.

Being with her hadn’t starved the fire; it had given it oxygen. Down in the hangar today, watching her handle her gear with that quiet, lethal competence, his entire body had been screaming at him to drag her right back into the shadows. The brief, deliberate touch of his thumb against her wrist had been a desperate, silent admission. He hadn't just wanted her body anymore—he wanted her presence.

Simon looked down at her hand resting against his ribs. His jaw clenched tight in the dark. It was a terrifying realization for a soldier like him. He didn't just desire Eve; he was beginning to need her. He needed the raw, unvarnished way she looked at him without the mask, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way her pulse hammered frantically against his lips right before she demanded more of him.

The thought of going back to the regular routine—of watching her walk across the courtyard from a distance, of pretending they were just two operators sharing a briefing room—felt like an actual physical ache in his chest.

Slowly, deliberately, Simon brought his hand up. His fingers gently brushed a strand of damp hair away from her face, his touch impossibly light for a man who killed for a living. He let his knuckles rest against the warm, soft skin of her cheek.

He was addicted to the friction of her. And as he pulled her slightly closer against his massive frame, listening to her soft sigh in her sleep, Ghost knew he was completely past the point of no return. He didn't just want her in his bed for a weekend; he needed her anchored to his side, permanently.

The subtle shift of his knuckles against her cheek was what finally broke her sleep.

Eve’s eyelashes fluttered open, her eyes adjusting to the dim, shadowed light of the room. She leaned her face slightly into the warmth of his hand, her gaze lifting to meet his. The fierce, defiant operator from the hangar was replaced by a quiet, unguarded stillness. There was no pretense between them now. She looked at him with a heavy, calm intimacy, her lips parting into a faint, sleepy smile.

"You ok?" she murmured, her voice a low, bedroom rasp.

Simon's knuckles brushed against her cheek. "Mm," he rumbled back, his chest vibrating against her arm.

For a few quiet moments, neither of them said anything. The connection between them felt incredibly heavy, a profound understanding that didn't require words. Her fingers lightly traced the edge of a jagged scar on his ribs, her touch firm but quiet, acknowledging the man beneath the monster without an ounce of fear.

Then, reality seemed to catch up with her. Eve sighed softly, shifting her weight as she began to pull her arm back, slowly pushing herself up into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. "I have to get back to my place," she said quietly, her bare shoulders tensing against the cool air of the room.

She started to slide her legs out, but she didn't make it an inch.

Simon’s hand shot out, his thick fingers wrapping firmly around her forearm, stopping her in her tracks.

Eve froze, turning her head to look back at him over her shoulder. Simon stared up at her from the pillow, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an agonizingly raw, unfiltered intensity. Every wall he had ever built was completely down, exposing a raw nerve he hadn't known existed.

"Stay," he said.

The word was short, gravelly, and carried a weight that nearly suffocated the quiet room.

Eve didn't answer right away. She fell completely silent, her expression flattening into an unreadable blank slate for one agonizing second.

To Simon, that single second felt like a tactical misstep—an exposure of his throat that left him dangerously unprotected. A sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline hit his chest, his survival instincts flaring as his jaw clenched. He had just handed her the weapon to destroy him. His fingers involuntarily tightened on her arm, his mind instantly hardening, already preparing to pull the walls back up to mask the vulnerability he had just shown.

Then, the corners of Eve's mouth slowly lifted.

A soft, knowing smile broke across her face, instantly disarming his internal defense. She leaned back down, pressing a lingering, deep kiss against his lips, before she tangled her legs with his, pressing her entire bare body flush against his massive, warm side.

She wrapped her arms tightly around his torso, burying her face into his chest, her shoulders shaking with a quiet chuckle.

"Getting soft, Riley?" she teased in a low, playful whisper.

Simon let out a long, ragged breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The defensive tension completely drained from his massive frame. He wrapped his heavy arms around her, pulling her in so tight she could feel the steady, powerful thud of his heart against her cheek, burying his face in her hair.

"Shut up, Morgan," he muttered into the dark, but he held her like he’d never let her go.

*************

The heavy scent of gun oil and ozone filled the small armory room. It was late afternoon, and the room was completely isolated from the rest of the barracks.

Eve was sitting on a low stool, methodically cleaning the bolt assembly of her rifle. Her movements were smooth, focused, and entirely calm. A few feet away, Maggie was leaning against a workbench, a piece of sandpaper in hand as she polished a rough edge on her custom stock.

For ten minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic scraping of metal and cloth.

Maggie stopped sanding. She blew the fine dust off the wood, her sharp eyes shifting sideways to look at Eve. She leaned her hip against the bench, crossing her arms over her chest, her tone shifting from her usual military sharpness into something softer, relaxed—the voice of an old friend who knew exactly how to read between the lines.

"Are you fucking someone?" Maggie asked bluntly, though a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.

The metal cleaning rod in Eve’s hand didn't slip. She didn't look up right away, her fingers continuing their steady, rhythmic work on the steel. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't tense or defensive; it was the comfortable, heavy silence of two women who trusted each other with their lives.

Without lifting her gaze from the rifle part, Eve let out a soft, barely audible breath.

"Maybe," Eve murmured.

Maggie’s smile widened, a quiet, triumphant chuckle escaping her. She dropped the sandpaper onto the bench and stepped closer, leaning against the rack right next to Eve's stool, completely discarding her officer persona. "I knew it. The atmosphere in the hangar has been completely different all day. I was starting to think someone had drugged the water supply."

Eve met Maggie's eyes, a rare, genuine warmth relaxing her face. "It's just... a change of pace."

"A change of pace?" Maggie repeated with dry amusement, leaning closer. "Eve, you looked ready to tear the walls down last week. Whoever he is, he’s doing something right. Is it anyone I have to worry about?"

"No," Eve said smoothly, her smile turning small and private as she oiled her gear. "Protocol is intact. It’s handled."

"Good," Maggie said softly, her eyes full of protective sincerity. "In this place, we take whatever peace we can find. You deserve that, Eve. Just be careful. Walls have ears around here, especially with MacTavish lurking."

"I can handle MacTavish," Eve replied, her eyes flashing with sharp humor.

************ The briefing room was quiet, Price had just walked out to grab a fresh pot of coffee, leaving the two of them alone.

Ghost was standing at the head of the table, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes fixed on the satellite imagery of their next target.

Across the table, Soap was leaning back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. He wasn't looking at the maps. He was chewing on the end of a plastic pen, his sharp blue eyes locked dead-on Ghost’s face, watching him with an infuriating, unblinking intensity.

Ghost didn't lift his head from the maps, but his voice cut through the quiet like a dull blade. "Stop staring MacTavish."

Soap just let out a low, amused hum, shifting the pen to the corner of his mouth. "Just observing, L.T. Just observing."

Ghost slowly lifted his head. The sheer, icy weight of his stare behind the black mesh was enough to make most recruits sweat, but Soap just grinned.

"Stop looking at me," Ghost rumbled, his voice a low, warning growl that vibrated in his chest.

"Can't help it," Soap said, finally letting the chair slam back down onto all four legs. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tactical map, poking his head just a bit closer. "You look different."

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. "I look exactly the same."

"Ah, no, ye don't," Soap countered, his Scottish drawl dripping with pure mischief. He gestured vaguely toward Ghost's massive shoulders. "The dark cloud usually floating over your head? Gone. You haven't threatened to throw me out of a moving chopper once today, and it’s already noon.”

Ghost remained entirely motionless, his expression hidden, but his posture went stone-cold rigid. "I have work to do. If you don't, go find a wall to stare at."

"I'm serious," Soap chuckled, leaning in even further, completely unafraid of the danger zone he was stepping into. "Did the weather change? Did ye finally get a decent night's sleep? Or did someone finally manage to tame the big, scary Ghost?"

The silence that followed was absolute.

Ghost stared at him for three agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he leaned down, placing both of his massive, gloved hands flat on the steel table, looming over Soap like an impending avalanche.

"MacTavish," Ghost whispered, the softness of his voice a hundred times more menacing than a shout.

"Aye, L.T.?" Soap blinked, his grin faltering just a fraction.

"If you don't shut your bloody mouth in the next two seconds," Ghost rumbled, his dark eyes burning into him, "the next deployment you see will be a solo survival exercise in the middle of the North Sea. Without a parachute. Do I make myself clear?"

Soap held his hands up, a nervous but triumphant chuckle escaping him as he backed off. "Crystal, L.T. Loud and clear."

Ghost straightened back up to his full, imposing height, pulling his tactical scarf up a fraction of an inch higher on his neck. "Good. Get the intel folders. Now."

****************** Maggie and Eve were sitting at one of the long steel tables near the back corners in the mess hall. They were speaking in low, relaxed tones, the easy comfort from their earlier conversation in the armory carrying over into the evening.

Eve took a final sip of her coffee, then set the mug down with a soft click. "I'm going to grab a refill. You want anything?"

"No, I'm good," Maggie replied, leaning back against the bench, her sharp eyes tracking Eve as she slid out from the table and stood up.

Eve turned and walked toward the heavy industrial coffee station across the room. She had only taken a few steps into the main aisle when the side door of the mess hall swung open, and Ghost walked in.

His eyes fixed straight ahead as he began crossing the room to grab a water ration.

Their paths intersected perfectly in the middle of the aisle.

Neither of them stopped walking, but as they drew parallel, Ghost shifted his stride by a fraction of an inch, his massive shoulder nearly brushing against hers. Without breaking his forward gaze, his hand twitched, his knuckles lightly, deliberately dragging against the side of Eve's thigh as he passed—a hidden, heavy touch meant only for her.

Eve’s face remained a flawless, unbothered mask of military discipline, but her eyes darkened with a sudden, intense heat as she kept walking toward the coffee pot.

Across the room, Maggie hadn't blinked.

She had been watching the entire interaction from the table, her head tilted slightly, her eyes zeroing in on the exact moment Ghost's hand had brushed Eve's leg, and the subtle, almost invisible shift in Eve's posture right after. Every single piece of the puzzle—the sudden lack of tension, the high collars, Soap's teasing, the quiet smile in the armory—instantly clicked together in her mind with brutal, absolute clarity.

A slow, utterly stunned realization washed over Maggie's face.

"Holy shit," Maggie whispered very softly to herself, her voice a barely audible breath in the quiet room.

Eve filled her mug, her expression perfectly schooled as she slid back onto the steel bench across from Maggie.

She picked up her coffee, but paused, the rim an inch from her lips. Maggie was leaning forward, her chin in her hands, a look of pure, triumphant amusement plastered across her face.

Eve set the mug down slowly, her eyes narrowing. "What?"

Maggie didn't answer right away. She just let out a quiet laugh, her gaze shifting deliberately from Eve’s face, down to the high collar of her shirt, and then toward the exit where Ghost’s massive shadow had just disappeared.

When Maggie looked back, her smile turned subtle, dry. "Nothing," she murmured, leaning back. "I just realized I don't ever have to worry about anyone giving you a hard time. You've got the biggest shield in the entire military logistics chain, Eve."

A small, private smile tugged at the corner of Eve’s mouth.

"I told you," Eve replied smoothly, taking a slow sip. "The situation is completely handled."

"Oh, I can see that," Maggie chuckled, shaking her head. "Just make sure he doesn't break the furniture, Morgan."

****************** The bathroom was cloaked in a soft, heavy warmth, the air thick with steam that smelled faintly of cedar and lavender. The only sound was the occasional, lazy drip of water from the faucet against the deep ceramic tub of Eve’s apartment.

Simon sat submerged in the hot water, his massive frame taking up nearly the entire length of the bath. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the tiled wall. For the first time in months, the harsh lines of tension around his jaw had completely unraveled. His heavily scarred arms were stretched out, resting loosely along the porcelain edges of the tub, completely defenseless, completely at peace.

Eve was settled directly in front of him. Her back was pressed flush against his broad, solid chest, her body enveloped by his warmth beneath the water. Her head rested easily in the crook of his shoulder, her eyes half-closed as she listened to the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. It was a rare, profound stillness, a quiet sanctuary they had carved out away from the base.

Without moving, Eve let out a soft, breathy sigh, her voice barely a whisper against his damp skin.

"Maggie knows."

Simon’s eyelids flickered open. The absolute stillness of his posture didn't break, but his dark eyes shifted downward, locking onto the side of her face. The cold, analytical lieutenant was back for a fraction of a second, processing the information.

He didn't sound angry, just deeply curious. "How?" he rumbled, his low voice vibrating directly through his chest and into her back.

Eve shifted slightly, tilting her head up just enough to look back at him. Her wet hair clung to her neck, and her expression was soft, entirely unbothered. "She figured it out on her own. She noticed the shift between us."

Simon stared at her for a moment longer, his gaze softening as he took in the quiet confidence in her eyes. He knew Maggie; he knew she was sharp. If anyone was going to see through the armor, it was her.

Letting out a long, heavy breath, Simon let his head sink back against the wall, his eyelids fluttering shut once more as the heat of the water pulled him back into that deep state of relaxation.

"MacTavish suspects," Simon muttered, his lips twitching just a fraction beneath the surface of the water.

Eve couldn't help the soft, genuine smile that broke across her face. She let her head drop back onto his shoulder, her fingers lightly tracing the waterline across his massive ribs. "Soap is a gossip," she murmured playfully, closing her eyes again. "But he’s too terrified of you to actually say anything out loud."

"He should be," Simon rumbled softly, his arm shifting beneath the water to wrap tightly around her waist, pulling her even closer against his chest, sealing the space between them as they drifted back into the warm, protective silence of the dark room.

**************** The armory was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic clink and scrape of steel on steel. Eight months of shadows, hidden touches in crowded hallways, and stolen nights in the dark had brought them here—sitting face-to-face at the heavy metal workbench, each entirely absorbed in their own routine maintenance.

Eve was wiping down the bolt carrier group of her rifle, her movements precise. Across from her, Simon was focused on his sidearm, his gloved hands working with familiar, lethal efficiency. His skull mask was pulled down tight, completely obscuring his face.

Eve didn't look up, but her sharp eyes caught the subtle, rigid set of his shoulders.

"You're tense," she said, her voice a low, steady cadence that barely cut through the silence.

Simon didn't answer. He didn't even pause. The small wire brush in his hand kept scrubbing at the slide of his pistol, the harsh friction the only response she got.

Then, without stopping his work, his hands moving with the exact same steady, mechanical rhythm, Simon spoke. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to come from the very bottom of his chest.

"I think I love you."

Eve’s hands froze for a mere fraction of a second—a microsecond of absolute stillness that anyone else would have missed. But Simon noticed. He didn't look up, but he felt the shift in the air. Then, smoothly, as if nothing had happened, Eve went back to running the cloth down the metal piece in her hands.

"You think, or you know?" she asked, her tone completely even, mirroring his calm.

Simon’s hands kept moving, assembling the barrel back into the slide with a sharp, metallic click.

"I know."

Eve finished what she was doing. With practiced, effortless grace, she slotted the bolt assembly back into her rifle and stood up from her stool.

Simon finally stopped his work, his dark eyes lifting behind the black mesh of his mask, tracking her every move.

Eve raised the rifle, bringing the stock firmly against her shoulder. She racked the bolt back with a sharp, heavy clack, letting it chamber on an empty room. She squeezed the trigger—a dry, hollow click echoing through the armory—and then swiftly dropped the empty magazine, checking the well with a clean, flawless motion.

Satisfied, she lowered the weapon to her side. She looked down at him, her gaze locking onto his behind the mask, a rare, brilliant warmth flashing in her eyes.

"Good," Eve said smoothly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Cause I love you too."

She gave him a quick, playful wink, turned on her heel, and walked out of the armory, her boots clicking fading down the corridor.

Simon sat entirely still in the sudden emptiness of the room.

For a second, the sudden, fierce hammering of his heart against his ribs was the loudest thing in the space—a chaotic, vulnerable rush that usually only came with adrenaline. Slowly, his hands relaxed against the workbench. The rigid tension in his shoulders completely dissolved.

A low, quiet chuckle escaped him, vibrating softly beneath the fabric of his mask as he looked down at his half-assembled weapon, a rare, genuine smile hidden in the dark. ******************** Rain drummed hard against the safehouse's iron roof, a damp concrete structure hidden in the middle of nowhere. The mission had been a meat grinder. They were both thoroughly exhausted, battered, and covered in dried mud

Eve was sitting on the cold concrete floor. Her tactical vest was unbuckled, lying beside her, and her face was smudged with soot. A sharp cut split her lower lip. Despite the bone-deep fatigue, her movements were steady as she methodically packed a fresh gauze wrap around a shrapnel graze on her forearm.

Across the small room, Ghost stood watching her through the dark mesh of his skull mask. His shadow stretched long and heavy under the flickering light of a single tactical lantern.

Slowly, his combat boots crunched against the debris on the floor as he crossed the space. He lowered his frame down onto the concrete right next to her, his shoulder brushing against hers.

Eve didn't look up, but she shifted her weight slightly, leaning into his solid warmth.

Simon reached into the pocket of his tactical trousers, his gloved fingers pulling out a small object. He gently caught the back of Eve’s hand, his touch steady as he turned her palm upward to expose it. Without a single word of preamble, he dropped the ring into her hand.

Eve stopped. Her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked down at what he had given her.

A deep, matte black titanium ring. The outer surface masterfully laboured with a dark, textured scrollwork engraving that caught the faint light. It wasn't a delicate piece of jewelry; it looked rugged, ancient, and utterly indestructible—engineered to survive the exact kind of hell they had just walked through.

Eve looked from the ring to him, lifting a skeptical eyebrow, her split lip stinging slightly as she spoke. "What's this, Simon?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, his hand reached up to the base of his neck. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled the heavy fabric of his skull mask completely off his head, tossing it onto the ammo crates.

His face was bare, his hair damp with sweat and his sharp jawline covered in a dark layer of stubble. His dark eyes, completely exposed and stripped of the intimidating shadow of the mask, locked onto hers with a raw, fierce intensity.

He leaned in closer, invading her space until she could feel the hot breath from his lips.

"It’s a permanent assignment, Morgan," Simon rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in his chest. "If I go down out there, everything I have is yours. My names, my pay, my slate. You’re the only one who gets to bury Ghost."

The silence that followed was absolute, save for the storm raging outside. Eve stared at him, her heart thudding a little harder against her ribs. She understood exactly what this meant. For a man who had spent a decade erasing his existence from every record on earth, handing over his legal identity and his future wasn't just a proposal—it was a total surrender. He was giving her his life.

A slow, private smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, ignoring the sharp sting of her cut lip. She pulled her glove off with her teeth, tossing it aside, and then slid the heavy black titanium band onto her finger. The dark metal fit perfectly.

She tilted her chin up, her gaze holding his with absolute confidence. "So you do want to keep me."

Simon’s eyes darkened, a rare, genuine warmth flashing through them. He reached out, his hand gripping the back of her neck with a firm, possessive hold, pulling her forward.

"Yeah," he whispered against her lips, his breath hot and commanding. "Forever. Deal with it."

He closed the distance, pressing his mouth to hers in a deep, heavy, and thoroughly possessive kiss, tasting the copper of her blood and the salt of the rain, sealing the pact in the dark.

*********** The tactical briefing had wrapped up. Price was capping his marker, Gaz was leaning back in his chair tapping a stylus against his tablet, and Soap was stretched out, massaging the back of his neck after hours of analyzing satellite telemetry.

Ghost remained seated at the head of the table, his massive arms crossed, his skull mask fixed forward.

A long, heavy silence stretched over the room. Five seconds. Ten.

Ghost uncrossed his arms, leaning forward slightly. His voice, deep and gravelly, cut through the quiet.

"I need the three of you clear next Saturday at 1800 hours."

Soap blinked, a furrow forming between his brows. Gaz tilted his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. Price paused, his hand still resting on the edge of the whiteboard, his sharp eyes narrowing as he tried to calculate what kind of off-books, unsanctioned op Ghost was spinning up without warning. None of them said a word, completely gripped by curiosity, waiting for the tactical catch.

Slowly, Ghost’s frame rose from the chair. He didn't look at them as he walked past the table, his combat boots echoing against the concrete floor as he made his way to the heavy steel door. He grabbed the handle, pushing it open just wide enough to step through.

Right before stepping out into the corridor, Ghost stopped. He turned his head just enough for his dark eyes to catch the three of them through the black mesh of his mask.

"I'm marrying Thorne."

The words hung in the dead air like an unexploded flashbang.

Before anyone could even breathe, Ghost raised his hand, extending a single, unyielding finger straight at the Captain.

"And I need you to officiate the ceremony, Price."

With that, he stepped out, and the heavy steel door clicked shut behind him.

For three agonizing seconds, the briefing room was a vacuum of absolute, stunned silence.

Soap’s jaw was practically unhinged, his blue eyes wide with a mix of sheer disbelief and manic, explosive energy. He looked at the closed door, then at Gaz, then back to the door, his hands cutting through the air.

"Are ye pulling my leg?!" Soap choked out, his Scottish accent spiking an octave higher as a wild, booming laugh suddenly erupted from his chest. "The big bastard?! Ghost?! Getting hitched?! I knew it! I bloody knew they were sneaking around, but a whole wedding?! Holy Mary, Mother of God, the sky is falling!" He slammed both palms flat on the table, grinning so hard his face looked ready to split.

Gaz was staring at the doorway as if Simon had just spoken to him in a foreign language. Slowly, a massive, disbelieving smirk started to crawl up the side of his face. He shook his head, letting out a low, breathy whistle of pure amazement. "Bloody hell," Gaz muttered, rubbing a hand down his face, though the grin wouldn't leave his lips.

Price stood exactly where he had been, his hand still frozen near the whiteboard. Slowly, he lowered his arm. The absolute shock on his face lingered for a fraction of a second before it dissolved into something deeply internal—a quiet, profoundly paternal warmth.

A low, rumbling chuckle started deep in Price's chest. He shook his head, a proud, knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he looked down at the empty table, already calculating the forged paperwork and the legal loopholes he’d have to pull to make it official.

"Well," Price murmured crossing his arms over his chest. "Looks like I need to find my dress uniform. God help the enemy if those two ever have a domestic dispute."

************ The gym echoed with the sharp cracks of striking pads. In the center ring, Morgan was deep into a high-intensity sparring session with Maggie, while Kane and Smith worked in the perimeter.

Maggie pushed Morgan back, resetting her stance with a breathless grin. "Come on, Thorne. You're holding back today. What’s on your mind?"

Morgan wiped the sweat from her forehead with her forearm, her voice perfectly level. "Next Saturday. 1800 hours. I need the three of you clear."

Maggie lowered her pads, smirking. "An off-books raid?"

Kane stopped wrapping his wrists, looking up with interest, and Smith dropped silently from the pull-up bar. Morgan looked at her unit, her expression a mask of absolute calm.

"I'm marrying Riley."

Maggie’s jaw dropped before a massive, triumphant laugh burst from her throat. She tossed the pads aside and grabbed Morgan by the shoulders.

"Holy shit, Morgan! I knew you had him handled, but a fucking ring?! You actually dragged him out of the shadows! Soap owes me fifty quid!"

Kane let out a disbelieving bark of laughter, shaking his head. "You're slinging shite, Thorne. The Ghost? Putting his name on a legal document? I've seen classified encryption easier to crack than that man. You've actually gone and done it."

A rare, genuine smile crept up Smith’s face. He let out a low, respectful chuckle and nodded. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. He's a lucky man. Just let us know what kind of security perimeter you need for the venue. Nobody disrupts next Saturday."

A small, sharp smile finally broke across Morgan’s face as she picked up her water flask.

"Price is officiating," she murmured, her eyes dancing with amusement. "And Soap is already losing his mind. I need you three there to keep them from burning the place down."

Maggie laughed, slinging her arm heavily over Morgan's shoulders. "Oh, we'll be there. Now get back in the ring. If you're marrying a giant, you need to practice your takedowns."

************* The atmosphere was tense yet strangely warm. The wind battered the windows, and the scent of tobacco, wood, and malt whiskey filled the space. The five guests stood in a semicircle, watching in a respectful silence rarely seen in the unit.

Simon stood tall, his shoulders relaxed but imposing in a black jumper. He wasn't wearing his mask. Before this select group, his scars and his clear gaze were completely exposed. Morgan stood across from him, wearing a cream turtleneck that hugged her frame closely, accentuating her athletic posture and the sharp line of her shoulders. The high collar drew all the attention to her face, her pinned-up hair, and her fierce, steady gaze. Below, her black palazzo pants flowed down in clean, wide lines, structured yet fluid. Visually, the pairing was stunning—Simon standing there dark, rugged, and imposing in his heavy knit, a striking counterpoint to her sharp, clean elegance.

Price stood at the front, holding a small book and a bundle of official documents on a wooden table. He looked at them with a paternal pride he tried to hide beneath his usual stern demeanor. He cleared his throat, his deep voice echoing through the room.

"We're not here for long speeches, nor to promise a future that none of us in this room can guarantee," Price said, glancing sideways at the group. "We're here because these two idiots decided that if they're going to keep walking straight into hell, they'd rather do it chained to each other."

Soap let out a muffled chuckle in the back, earning a swift, sharp elbow to the ribs from Maggie, who kept her eyes locked on Morgan, a look of absolute complicity and genuine pride shining in her gaze.

"Simon, Morgan," Price continued, turning serious. "In this line of work, your name is the first thing they take from you, and your life is the last thing you surrender. By signing this registry, you are binding your names, your legacies, and your contingencies. If one falls, the other carries the weight. Are you ready for the contract?"

"Yes," Simon answered without a second thought, his gravelly voice filling the room.

"Ready," Morgan said, a barely perceptible smile touching her lips.

Simon took Morgan's hand. His large, rough fingers slid the heavy black titanium band onto her finger. Morgan, in turn, pulled out an identical, dark, textured band and slid it onto Simon's finger. The contrast of the black metal against their skin sealed the pact.

"By the power vested in me by command and this bloody paperwork," Price concluded with a smirk, "you are officially bound. Don't die out there. You may kiss the bride, Lieutenant."

Simon took Morgan by the back of her neck in that possessive way she loved and kissed her deeply, a fierce, private kiss that finally made the group break protocol.

The moment they separated, the rugged military atmosphere rushed back, transforming into a loud but intimate celebration as Price poured glasses of expensive whiskey for everyone.

Soap was the first to break formation, clapping Simon brutally on the back—a blow that would have staggered anyone but Ghost. "About bloody time, mate!" the Scotsman exclaimed in his thick accent. "I was getting tired of playing blind in the base corridors. Congratulations, Morgan! You're taking home the heaviest ghost in the army."

Maggie stepped up to Morgan, completely ignoring the men. She gave her a firm hug, then leaned in to whisper with a radiant smile, " I'm so happy for you, Morgan. If this big guy ever gets out of line, let me know and I'll sabotage his gear."

Gaz approached with two glasses of whiskey, handing one to Simon and the other to Morgan with a calm, respectful smile. "Glad to see someone's actually controlling the situation around here. Congratulations to you both. You deserve it more than anyone."

Smith raised his glass toward Simon in a silent salute of military respect, acknowledging the weight of the commitment he had just made. Kane smiled, arms crossed, and nudged Morgan with his elbow. "Wiped every trace of tonight's coordinates from the main grid. Officially, central command thinks you're just changing the oil on the transport trucks. You owe me big time, Thorne, and that wedding cake better be worth a court-martial."

Price raised his crystal glass, cutting through the chatter, and looked at the seven operators who formed the heart of his most lethal unit.

"To Simon and Morgan," Price said firmly. "May the devil be late to find out you're married."

"To them!" the group chorused in unison, clinking their glasses together in the dense warmth of the safehouse.

Beneath the table, Simon sought out Morgan's hand, gripping her fingers tightly. He glanced at the team, then back to her, letting out that low, hidden chuckle that only Morgan could ever bring out of him. He was home.

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