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The 141 is gathering intel on an elite enemy squad stationed in an isolated village in Germany. Ghost had been separated from his team during an ambush and narrowly avoided being captured by taking cover in an old, decrepit church. He finds himself a place to sit, a good vantage point and a safe spot. Or so he thought.

Click.

He turns to see who is behind him. A person in a camouflaged sniper hood. You hold the gun to his forehead, a standard issue Glock. You are a seasoned sniper and have been in the service for long enough to know you should kill this man on sight. You eye him through the holes of your mask, glaring at him. “Who are you?” you snarl as you turn the safety off your pistol. You never liked pistols. You are far more apt with a rifle. Your own rifle is a custom piece by the Marines, beautiful and perfect for you. She shoots better than this pistol, too

“Ghost. Who’re you?” He slowly puts his hands up. His voice is low, and his accent is British. You wrinkle your nose under the mask. You are almost as much of a legend as he is. He's just a bit older than you, and he has more stories under his belt.

“King,” you reply lowly. Your voice is gravelly from days of not using it. You had been caught in the same ambush as Ghost did, though you don’t know it. The team you were keeping eyes on had moved, and you needed to move your own ass to find another place to set up. Your boys had been separated from you in the ambush.

You take a moment to analyze Ghost. The puzzle pieces quickly fall into place. Ghost isn’t part of the enemy team; he had been on the same mission as you were. Take down the squad in this German village. But they aren’t here. KorTac has changed bases. Ghost is in the SAS, on a task force called the 141.

“I thought King was a man.” Ghost lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“That’s the point. Nothing a man fears more than a woman.” You turn the safety back on and holster your pistol.

Ghost doesn’t move. Not right away. He watches you, sizing you up the same way you did him. The sniper’s hood hides most of your face, but he can see the way your shoulders sit - rigid, wary. You don’t trust him yet. Smart.

“You alone?” His voice is steady, but his fingers flex at his sides. He’s aware of the storm outside, the weight of the dark pressing in through the stained-glass windows. If there’s one thing Ghost knows, it’s that a bad storm makes for a long night.

You tilt your head, considering. “Hmm. Perhaps.”

He huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “Just making conversation, love.”

Your eyes narrow. Love. You file that away under British Nonsense You Don’t Have Time For.

You shift your weight, listening to the rain battering the church roof. “We’re on the same side,” you say finally. It’s not a question but a statement, something solid to ground the conversation.

Ghost nods once. “Looks like it.”

"This church isn't safe," you say, gesturing to the falling-apart walls and ceiling. "There's an abandoned farmhouse, about three klicks that way. It'll be safer, and I know it'll have dry wood for fire inside." 

Ghost tilts his head like a curious bird. "You don't think this is good 'nough?" 

A sudden lightning strike makes contact with the ground through a hole in the roof, scaring the shit out of both you and Ghost. "No, I don't," you reply, ears ringing and eyes dilated from the lightning. "We need to move to a building that isn't as tall. Isn't as prone to-" A loud clap of thunder drowns out your words. "Let's move."

"Agreed," Ghost replies, his voice loud to make up for his sudden loss of hearing. 

Neither of you wastes time. You both move like ghosts through the ruined church, your boots silent against the old wooden floor. The storm rages outside, the wind howling through broken windows like a wounded animal. Every instinct in you screams to keep moving, to get to lower ground before the storm decides to finish what the enemy couldn’t.

Ghost moves ahead, pushing the heavy doors open just enough to scan the outside. Rain lashes down in thick sheets, visibility cut to hell. He turns back to you. “You sure ‘bout this farmhouse?”

You scoff, pulling your hood up tighter. “Unless you wanna camp out in a lightning rod, yeah. I’m sure.”

He doesn’t argue. Smart man. You slip out first, rifle tight against your chest, keeping low as you push through the storm. Ghost follows close behind, his movements just as fluid, just as practiced. You’re two shadows in the dark, navigating mud and uneven ground with nothing but muscle memory and survival instinct.

The farmhouse isn’t far, but in this weather, it might as well be another country. The mud clings to your boots, making every step heavier, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Thunder cracks above, shaking the ground beneath you. Ghost swears under his breath.

“Move faster,” you order, pushing forward.

Another crack of lightning. This one lands too close, the blinding white streak slamming into the earth a few meters off to your left. Your muscles lock up for half a second before your body remembers how to move.

Ghost grabs your arm, yanking you forward. “Keep going!”

You run.

You both bolt, keeping your bodies low to the ground and weaving through the trees. Three kilometers isn't that far. You slide down a hill, getting mud on your camo pants. Ghost follows you, then darts for the farmhouse. It's in sight now. You duck inside, slamming the door shut and locking it behind Ghost. 

"Aw, fuck," you groan, looking at the state of yourself. Covered in mud, pine needles, and leaves - drenched to the bone. "This isn't supposed to let up until tomorrow. Or maybe even tomorrow after." 

"I am aware," Ghost replies, his mask soaked entirely through and entirely too uncomfortable. But you're a stranger. 

You are already building a fire in the fireplace. The abandoned house is only one room, with a kitchen (nothing works), a fireplace, and a dusty couch. The house is otherwise empty, save for the logs that are probably older than you are. There's an outhouse outside, but it's mostly broken down. The windows are all intact, and the roof is well-built. 

"God, this is gross," you look at the mud caked on your leg and side. "At least my gun's okay." 

Ghost watches you, then looks down at himself. He’s no better - drenched, mud-streaked, leaves sticking to his gear like he rolled through a damn forest floor. He sighs, pulling off his gloves and squeezing water from them. It doesn’t help much.

“You’re worried about mud?” His voice is dry, unimpressed.

You shoot him a glare as you poke at the fire, trying to coax the weak flames higher. “Yeah, actually. Have you ever tried sniping with wet gear? Not exactly ideal.”

Ghost huffs, pulling his vest off, followed by the outer layer of his soaked jacket. He moves carefully, deliberately, like he’s aware of every movement you might be watching. Maybe he is.

You shake your head and refocus on the fire. The flames finally catch properly, crackling over the old logs. Heat spreads through the small space, chasing away the worst of the cold. You roll your shoulders, feeling the wet fabric clinging to your back.

Ghost watches the fire for a moment, then shifts, peeling off his soaked balaclava. You glance up, your sniper-trained eyes catching the movement immediately. You don’t stare, but you see enough. The sharp cut of his jaw, the pale scars against his skin. His blonde hair is damp, pressed flat to his skull. You heard he never takes his mask off.

“You’re real, huh?” you murmur, more to yourself than anything.

Ghost raises a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, leaning back on your hands. “Thought maybe you were some kind of ghost story. A myth. Just rumors and war stories. Like the Devil, you know?”

Ghost snorts, tossing his soaked mask onto the floor beside his vest. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You smirk, wiping a hand down your muddy sleeve. “Bet I won’t be the last, either.”

The both of you strip everything you're wearing off. You take out the wet things in your bag, then set it next to the fireplace. Your mask, gloves, pants, jacket, shirt, boots, and socks are across the floor in front of the fire. Ghost does the same, keeping his jeans on - it's so not fair he has jeans and not camo pant. Everything else is next to your clothes. 

After you're both peeled out of your clothes, you're left in a wet tank top and the boxers you buy for when you're sent out on missions. Ghost is in his own tank top, his wet jeans sticking to his legs. You almost gag at the sight of it. "God, that looks so uncomfortable," you groan, wiping the dust off the couch. 

You plop down on the now somewhat clean couch, thinking about how you can't wait to get back home. Get dry and warm and clean. "Unlike you, I have some dignity left," Ghost says, his voice quiet. 

"I will sacrifice my dignity for my comfort right now," you reply. 

"At least you've got boxers on and not girly-" Ghost stops himself, shaking his head. 

"Bitch-" you begin, but then you decide better of it. You don't want to die. "They comfortable when I'm on missions."

Ghost just gives a slow nod, his expression unreadable. “S’pose that makes sense.”

You snort, stretching your legs out, letting the fire’s warmth seep into your bones. “Damn right it does.”

Ghost, on the other hand, shifts uncomfortably. You can hear the wet denim clinging to his skin when he moves, and it makes you cringe on instinct. “I know you have something else to wear,” you say, eyeing him. “You’re not seriously gonna sit there in wet jeans all night.”

Ghost exhales through his nose, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Not much choice, is there?”

You groan dramatically, rubbing your face. “You’re impossible. You’d rather sit there miserable than just strip to your boxers like a normal person?”

Silence.

You look over at him. He’s staring into the fire, jaw tight, something unreadable flickering across his face. You recognize that look - it’s the look of someone who doesn’t do vulnerability. Someone who holds their mask together with sheer force of will. You sigh, leaning your head back against the couch. “Fine, whatever. Be uncomfortable. Not my problem.”

Ghost doesn’t reply. The fire crackles, the storm beats against the farmhouse, and exhaustion begins to settle into your limbs. It’s been a long day. Longer than you’d like. After a minute, you hear the rustle of fabric. You crack an eye open just in time to see Ghost peeling off his jeans, tossing them onto the pile of drying clothes. He’s left in black boxers, a faint scar visible on his thigh.

You smirk. “Took you long enough.”

He glares. “Not. A. Word.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, a shit-eating grin on your face. “I didn’t say anything.”

Ghost just shakes his head, sitting back against the wall near the fire. You close your eyes again, listening to the rain. You’re stuck here for the night, but at least you’re not alone.

"I've never been so miserable in my life," you say, jumping at a nearby crash of thunder. "I've been shot, but this is worse."

Ghost looks up at you, but you don't see it. Your eyes are closed out of respect so he doesn't feel uncomfortable. "You're bein' dramatic," he replies. 

"You are painfully British," you shoot back. "Like, heartbreakingly British." 

Ghost gasps, and you crack an eye open to see the look of offense on his face. You assume he's being dramatic. "Oh, heartbreakingly British, am I?" Ghost scoffs, shifting his weight against the wall. 

"Yes, I've never heard anyone so British in my life," you say, sprawling out on the dusty couch. "Where you from?" 

"Manchester, love," he says, tossing a pebble at you. 

"Bet you're used to the rain," you mutter, yelping when he stands up to sit on the couch. "Hey! I was laying there!"

Ghost just smirks, shoving your legs aside like they’re nothing. You groan, exaggerating the motion as you flop onto your side, staring at him. “You’re the worst.”

He leans back, stretching his arms over the back of the couch, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “You’re the one complainin’ about a bit of rain like it’s the end of the world.”

You sit up on your elbows, glaring. “Bit of rain? This is a goddamn biblical event. There’s probably a fuckin’ ark floating around out there.”

Ghost chuckles, shaking his head. “Soft.”

You gasp dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. “How dare you?”

He just smirks. It’s not something you see often - not in the field, not in the stories you’ve heard about him. But here, half-dressed and exhausted in some abandoned farmhouse, he looks almost… relaxed. Almost.

You nudge his thigh with your foot. “You never answered my question.”

Ghost raises a brow.

“Bet you’re used to the rain, huh?”

He exhales, tilting his head. “Aye. Grew up with it.”

You nod. “Figures. There's something tragic about you."

“What the hell does that mean?”

You shrug. “Just that you seem like the type to be happy when it’s cold and grey outside. The kinda guy who drinks tea and stares out the window all broody.”

He huffs, looking away. “I don’t drink tea.”

You grin. “Yeah? What do you drink, then?”

“…Coffee.”

You make a dramatic, unimpressed noise. “How rebellious. A Brit drinking coffee?”

Ghost rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement in them. “Shut up.”

The rain still beats down outside, the storm showing no sign of letting up. You glance at Ghost, watching the firelight flicker against his face before closing your eyes again. You sprawl on the couch, catching your reflection in the window across from you. You swear that's not what you looked like. The reflection of yourself is familiar but not you. It looks like something you'd see in your mirror when you were younger. A little softer, but with a brighter smile. You shake your head to clear it. 

The wind howls outside like it's some sort of creature, screaming and pounding at the door. The rain is so loud that you can barely hear the sound of your own breathing. "Good weather for a picnic, huh?" you laugh. "For you and me?" 

Ghost side-eyes you like you've just said the most egregious thing ever. "You got picnic supplies?" 

"I got an apple somewhere in my pack," you say with a triumphant grin. 

He raises a blonde eyebrow at you, his face completely clean of black face paint from the rain. Well, not completely. There's still a little around his eyes, but it's not enough to hide anything. He's got the most beautiful brown eyes you've ever seen. "Hmm," he grunts, ending your conversation. 

You sigh and turn back to the fire, mentally preparing for the misery that will be tomorrow. You're shivering again, the warmth of the fire not quite reaching you. Ghost watches you watch the fire, your teeth shattering, your legs turning a dim shade of blue. 

"You're freezing yourself," he notes. 

"Well, excuse me for not wanting to cuddle with you," you snort incredulously. You don't have a blanket in your pack, you took it out so it was lighter. Ghost also doesn't have a blanket in his pack because he was teased by Soap about it. The abandoned farmhouse doesn't have a blanket because it barely has a couch. "If I get pneumonia," you add, "I'm making my captain do my report."

Ghost exhales sharply, somewhere between a sigh and a quiet chuckle. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing back at you. You’re shaking, curled up tight on yourself, and despite your best efforts to play it down, you’re cold. Too cold.

“Right,” he mutters. Then, before you can react, he shifts, lifting the arm he had stretched over the back of the couch and pulling you against him.

You freeze - no pun intended - going stiff as a board. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Keepin’ you from droppin’ dead, you dramatic little shit,” Ghost replies, completely unbothered, like he didn’t just grab you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Now, shut up and warm up.”

Your brain stalls. Just stops working. You’re pressed against him, and God, he’s warm. Radiating heat like a damn furnace. His arm is slung around your shoulders, solid and heavy, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat against your temple.

For a moment, you just… sit there, processing. Then, finally, you mutter, “This is so unfair.”

Ghost hums, amused. “What is?”

“That you’re this warm. What the fuck, man.”

Ghost snorts, the sound almost fond. “Maybe if you stopped complainin’, you’d warm up faster.”

You grumble something unintelligible, but you don’t move away. You’re too cold, too exhausted, and - if you’re honest - too damn comfortable now to put up a real fight. The fire crackles. The wind howls. And for the first time since this mission went sideways, you’re actually warm.

"Can't believe I'm cuddling with the human equivalent of the Devil," you mutter through chattering teeth. "Of course, the Devil would be British." 

He is very warm. Warm like his eyes are warm. This is the big, scary Ghost that everyone in your unit is afraid of? The guy in the skullface mask, who if you see, you're dead already? Yeah, you don't think so. This is just some man. With blonde hair and brown eyes. Some man who's holding you to keep you warm and resting his chin on your head. You snuggle closer to him, wondering if this is some sort of trap. 

"The Devil?" he says with a pout. 

"Don't pout at me," you say softly. 

“I’m not poutin’,” Ghost grumbles, but you can hear the shift in his voice, that faint, almost-playful lilt.

You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. “You are, though. You sound offended.”

Ghost huffs, adjusting his grip around you, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t push you off. If anything, he holds you a little closer. “You compare a man to the Devil and expect ‘im to just accept it?”

You grin, nuzzling further into his warmth. “Well, you do have a bit of an image to maintain, y’know. Big bad reaper. The guy who gets sent in when things need to be handled… permanently.”

Ghost doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathes. Slow, steady. You feel it more than you hear it, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “That what they say?”

You shrug. “It’s what I heard.”

Ghost hums, a sound deep in his throat. “And what d’you think?”

You pause, considering. What do you think? You think about how he kept up with you in the storm, how he helped you get to safety. You think about how he pulled you against him without hesitation, how he let you get comfortable, no questions asked. You think about the way he sat with you by the fire, quiet, present.

You exhale. “I think you’re just some guy.”

Ghost tilts his head, amused. “Just some guy?”

You nod against him. “Yeah. Some guy who’s a little scary when he wants to be. But mostly, just some guy.”

Ghost doesn’t answer right away. Then - so quiet you almost miss it - he chuckles. It’s warm, like him. “Suppose that’s not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

You smirk. “Good. Now shut up and keep me warm.”

You fall asleep in his arms, despite the fact he isn't your boyfriend, despite the fact he's supposed to be some sort of monster. You snuggle with him as if he were the best pillow in the world. And maybe that's what kickstarted everything. Maybe that's why, the next morning, you have a crush the size of Jupiter on him. 

"It's still raining," Ghost says into your ear. You flinch so hard that it makes him groan. 

"Sorry!" you quickly apologize, trying to regain composure of yourself. "I'm going to go sit by the fire." 

You move your now-dry clothes out of the way, then sit on the dusty hardwood floor. Ghost looks at you like you're crazy. And to be honest, maybe you are. 

“You have a couch,” Ghost points out, voice thick with sleep.

You shrug, rubbing at your arms. “Yeah, and you stole it.”

Ghost snorts, stretching his legs out. “Didn’t hear you complainin’ last night.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, face warming. “I was half-dead from hypothermia, you absolute menace.”

“Mmm.” He leans his head back, eyes closing again. “Excuses.”

You roll your eyes, focusing on the fire. Anything to keep yourself from acknowledging the way your chest tightens when you hear the sleep in his voice. The way you definitely aren’t thinking about how nice it felt to fall asleep against him.

Nope. Not at all. You’re a soldier, not a schoolgirl with a crush. And yet, here you are, sitting cross-legged on a dusty floor, staring into a fire like it’s gonna burn the feelings out of you. God, you’re doomed.

“D’you always wake up this early?” Ghost’s voice pulls you from your spiral.

“Mm?” You glance at him. He’s watching you now, brown eyes sharp despite the lazy way he’s sitting. You shrug. “Guess I do.”

He hums. “S’not normal.”

You scoff. “Yeah, well, neither are you.”

Ghost tilts his head, considering. Then he smirks, slow and amused. “Fair enough.”

You look back at the fire, swallowing down the ridiculous urge to smile. Yep. You’re definitely doomed.

You stretch your legs before putting on your dry (but still dirty) clothes. "We'll move out when it slows down," you mutter, resting your head against the brick wall. You are soldier. You are King.  This is fine. You'll go back to America and then never think about this again. This is fine. 

You glance outside, crossing your legs to fix the weirdness you're feeling. "Bullshit, this is bullshit. I want to shoot something!" 

"Very American of you," Ghost says. 

"Hmm," you grunt. A flash of lightning scares you so bad that you actually jolt up. "Holy shit!" you yelp. 

"It's not stopping anytime-" then comes the thunder after the lightning. "-soon." 

"No shit!" you gasp, trying to calm down. "God. Jesus."

Ghost shakes his head, clearly entertained by your suffering. “You alright there, tough girl?”

You shoot him a glare, placing a hand over your chest as if to hold your heart in place. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just having a near-death experience, thanks for asking.”

Ghost smirks. “Thought you were supposed to be a hardened sniper. What happened to that?”

“I am a hardened sniper,” you huff, settling back down against the wall. “I just prefer my firefights to involve bullets, not the wrath of God.”

Ghost chuckles, low and warm. “Didn’t take you for the religious type.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, closing your eyes for a second. “But after this? Might have to consider it.”

The storm shows no sign of letting up, the rain still hammering against the farmhouse like it has a personal vendetta. You exhale, rubbing your face. This is fine. Everything is fine.

“So,” Ghost says, shifting his weight. “What’s the plan, then?”

You sigh, tapping your fingers against your knee. “Wait until this bullshit slows down. Link back up with our teams. Finish the damn mission.”

Ghost hums, but there’s a weight to it, something thoughtful. “And after that?”

You blink. “After?”

He nods, watching you. “You goin’ back to the States?”

You hesitate. It’s an obvious answer - of course you are. That’s where your unit is, your life, everything. But for some reason, sitting here in a half-broken farmhouse, wrapped in the aftereffects of last night, the answer doesn’t come as easy as it should. “Yeah,” you finally say, though it doesn’t feel as solid as it should. “Yeah, I guess.”

Ghost doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he nods once, leaning his head back against the couch. “Right.”

You frown. Something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. You sigh and make your way back over to Ghost. It's definitely not because you want to touch him again. Even though you have your camo on, you can feel his heat. 

"What are you doing?" Ghost whispers, holding his arms up like he's not sure what to do with you. 

"I'm getting you dirty," you say, resting your head on his chest. 

"...why?" he whispers. 

"Because you were pouting again," you tease. It's really because you just wanted to touch this big, sexy, hot man again. Because if you're going back to the States and he's going back to Manchester, you're going to make the most out of it. 

Ghost lets out a slow breath, arms still hovering like he’s debating whether or not to actually touch you. “I wasn’t pouting.”

“You so were.” You grin against his chest, feeling the deep rumble of his breath as he exhales. “All sad and broody over there. Thought I’d do you a favor.”

He huffs, unimpressed. “Oh, how generous of you.”

You nod against him. “Very.”

For a second, you think he’s going to pull away, put some distance between you like last night never happened. But then, slowly, like he’s fighting some internal battle, his arms settle around you. Not tight, not like last night when he was just keeping you from freezing - no, this is different. This is tentative. Careful. Like he’s trying to figure out why the hell he’s letting this happen.

You don’t press him. You don’t tease. You just breathe, closing your eyes, letting yourself enjoy this while you still can.

This is a bad idea. Such a bad idea. You can already tell. But you’re cold, and he’s warm, and for now - for just this moment - you don’t want to think about what happens next. Ghost shifts slightly, and you swear you feel his head dip, like he’s resting his chin against the top of your head again.

You close your eyes. This is fine.

He pulls you fully against him, holding you like he's afraid you're going to fly to the States that very moment. He buries his face in your hair, taking a deep breath in. It tickles, so you laugh, swatting him away. "I don't want you to go back to the States," he whispers. 

"Why? You met me yesterday." But you also don't want to go back to the States. You want to stay in his arms forever, to snuggle up against this seasoned killer like he's all yours.

He sighs softly. "I haven't- haven't touched someone in years," he replies. 

Your heart breaks into a million little pieces and falls out of your chest. "Oh," you say, your throat tightening. "Why do you... want to touch me?" 

"I don't know," he replies simply. 

That answer shouldn’t make your heart ache the way it does. It shouldn’t make you want to grab him by the face and promise him things you know you can’t. Things that don’t belong to people like you. But it does. God, it does.

You swallow, shifting against him just enough to look up at him. His mask is still off, his face bare in the low light of the fire. His eyes meet yours, searching, like he doesn’t understand it either.

“Is it just ‘cause I’m here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You need to know. Need to understand.

Ghost is silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No.”

Just one word. One syllable. But it shifts something deep in your chest, something terrifying and warm and wrong. Because you’re leaving. Because this is temporary. Because you met him yesterday. Because he’s Ghost, and you’re King, and you both know better.

And yet-

You lift a hand, pressing it gently against his chest. His heart is steady beneath your palm, slow and sure. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch. “…Okay,” you whisper.

Ghost exhales, like maybe he was waiting for you to deny him, to tell him he was imagining things. But you don’t. Because you feel it, too. And God help you both. You get up so you're fully straddling his lap now, wrapping your arms around his neck. "What's one night? Or- well, one day?" you whisper. 

"What are you doing?" he gasps, his breath hitching. 

"I'm going to kiss you... because I don't think we're going to see each other again," you reply, tangling your fingers in that short, blonde hair. 

He makes the first move, however. His lips touch yours for just a moment, and then you're suddenly fully making out with him. His arms hold you against himself like you're going to leave the moment he stops kissing you. Maybe you're both stir crazy or have cabin fever. But you kiss him back, and God, he's such a good kisser. 

It's a shame you're not going to see him again after this.

Ghost kisses like he fights - deliberate, intense, all in. Like he’s trying to commit the shape of your lips to memory, like he knows the moment you leave, all he’ll have is the memory of this. You feel the desperation in it, the silent don’t go, don’t go, don’t go that neither of you is saying aloud. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against your mouth. That sound - it does something to you, sends something hot and aching down your spine. His hands dig into your waist, his body solid beneath you, warm and real and- 

Fucking hell. You’re leaving. But not yet.

For now, you pour everything into the kiss, into the way your bodies fit together, like maybe, just maybe, this can be enough. You’ll take this with you, back to the States, back to your life - this one stolen moment with a man you should have never touched in the first place.

And when the storm finally clears, when you both step out of this farmhouse and back into reality... You’ll pretend none of this ever happened. Even though you both know that’s a goddamn lie.

Before both of you go your separate ways, you pull up your mask and kiss him again. You kiss the teeth of his mask before he pulls it up to let you kiss his real lips. Your guns are in the way, so you can't hold each other. But you kiss him. God, do you kiss him. "Goodbye, Ghost," you say with a watery laugh. 

"I'll be back for you," he says, pulling his mask down. 

You give him a sad smile. "I'll see you, Ghost." 

By the time you get back to your little house near your home base, there is a hole where your heart was. You wash everything you took with you on your trip twice, then take an hour-long shower, hoping it'll make you feel better. It doesn't. 

You put your precious rifle in your safe, then drop to your couch. God, you stupid woman! How could you kiss him? 

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, willing yourself to get a grip. It was just a moment, just one day in the middle of a war, just two lonely souls clinging to something fleeting. It wasn’t supposed to matter. But it does. Because Ghost said he’d come back for you.

Jesus. Jesus. You let out a hollow laugh, dragging your hands down your face. You shouldn’t have kissed him, shouldn’t have let yourself feel anything for a man you’ll never see again. This was supposed to be easy - get in, get out, move on. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.

But here you are, curled up on your couch, staring at the ceiling like it holds all the answers. Like it can tell you why your lips still burn from his kiss, why your chest aches like you left something vital behind in that godforsaken farmhouse. You close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. Get it together, King. You’ll be fine. You always are. As you finally drift off to an exhausted sleep, you swear you can still feel the warmth of his hands on your skin. And it haunts you.

Your house is small, just big enough for you. But you feel like it's empty. Goddammit, Ghost. Goddammit!! You lay on your floor, your back popping as you do so. Ghost... Ghost, Ghost, Ghost. 

You go about your days as you always do. Go to work, train, fuck with the boys, run a mission here and there. For six months, you do the same things. And you feel hollow, still.  Your boys don't notice the difference. But you can feel it in your heart, the way things weigh on you. You tried to go on a date, but that went horribly. So, you stick to what you know. Sneaking and shooting. 

"And that is why they call her King!" one of the men in your unit claps you on the back after a shooting competition. 

"I thought King was a man," says a man from another unit. 

Your heart sinks. "There's nothing a man fears more than a woman."

Six months of misery. Six months of everything reminding you of him. Fuck's sake, you saw a plastic Halloween skeleton and it made you bleary-eyed. Sometimes, you'll see a man with a face mask and blonde hair, and it'll make you do a double take. You are so hopelessly gone for this man you met for a simple 24 hours.

While you're lying on the floor of your house, someone knocks on your door like a cop. You groan, rolling over to get the door. If this is one of your boys, you're making him get ice cream for you. 

"I told you I'd come for you," Ghost says. "I sat outside this door for an eternity before I knocked." 

You jump up to hug him, burying your face in his neck. "You really came for me?"

"'Course I did," he whispers against your hair. 

The both of you stand in the doorway like a pair of lovesick fools. He takes off his mask before kissing you. Just like he did that stormy day. He kisses you desperately, one hand clutching his mask and the other distinguished your hair. 

"Get in here." You gasp for breath, yanking him by the collar. 

Ghost stumbles forward, letting the door swing shut behind him as you pull him inside. His hands find your waist, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His mask falls from his fingers, forgotten as he pushes you up against the nearest wall, kissing you like he needs it to live.

You meet him just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his hair, fingers curling tight. Six months. Six goddamn months of waiting, of aching, of pretending you didn’t care. Six months of trying to move on, to forget, to convince yourself he was just another ghost in your past. But he’s here. And it’s real.

You break apart just long enough to breathe, your foreheads pressing together, panting like you’ve both run a marathon. His fingers dig into your sides, his thumbs stroking over your ribs like he’s relearning the shape of you. “You absolute bastard,” you whisper, laughing shakily. “You actually did it.”

Ghost chuckles, breathless. “Told you I would.”

Your chest tightens, and you close your eyes, pressing closer. “I missed you.” The words slip out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered.

Ghost stills for a moment. Then, his hands cup your face, tilting you up to look at him. His eyes are warm and soft in a way you never thought they could be. “Missed you too, love,” he murmurs. “More than I should.”

You kiss him again - slow this time, like you have all the time in the world. Because maybe, just maybe, you do. "I don't even know your name," you giggle after you break away again. 

He pants, gasping for air and yanking his gloves off with his teeth. "It's Simon. Simon Riley," he replies, with that British accent or his. You groan softly at the sound of him. You tell him your own name, but you can barely keep your lips off him. 

"Desperate little thing, aren't you?" he teases. 

"Shut up." You rest your head against his shoulder. Simon kicks off the shoes he's wearing, discarding them with everything else he has left on your floor. "You. Me. Bed. Now."

Simon huffs a laugh, his breath hot against your ear. "Bossy," he mutters, but his hands are already gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You lock your legs around his waist, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

"Move, Riley," you murmur against his jaw, nipping at the stubble there.

He groans, stumbling blindly toward your bedroom, nearly knocking over a chair in the process. You laugh against his skin, but the sound is cut off when he drops you onto the bed and crawls over you, pinning you beneath him.

For a moment, he just looks at you - eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised, his hair mussed from your fingers. His weight presses you into the mattress, grounding you, making this feel real. Not a dream, not a memory - real.

"You're sure?" he asks, his voice low, his thumb stroking over your cheek.

You grab him by the collar and yank him down until your lips are just barely brushing. "Shut up and kiss me, Simon."

You need him. You need him like you need food and water. Like you need the air. Your bed groans under the weight of him, but you don't care. If he breaks your bed, you'll wear it as a badge of honor. He grinds against your hips, slow and easy, like he hasn't been yearning for this. "Six bloody months," he growls as he kisses your neck. Definitely going to be a bruise there. "Remembering the way you didn't believe I'd come back for you." 

"We were together for 24 hours," you reply with a laugh. Your heart is beating faster than it ever has before and you are trembling in anticipation. 

"And I was head over heels the moment you put that gun to my head," he groans. He rolls his hips again, making you briefly see stars

"God," you whimper. "I was so down bad for you after you held me that night." 

"Figures." He grins against your neck. You are definitely going to have to explain the hickeys tomorrow. "What do you want, love?"

"You," you sigh dreamily. 

"That's good, love, but I need specifics," he whispers. "Oral? Bit of fingering? What can I do for my girl?"

Your gaze softens. "You're a big sweetie," you say, eyes darting away for a moment. 

"Tsk. Don't avoid my question," he says, shaking his head. "And don't say 'you.' Because you already have me."

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you just look at him. Simon Riley—Ghost, the man with a reputation as cold as the grave, as untouchable as a shadow - hovering over you, warm and solid and yours. His brown eyes, darkened with want, pin you in place, his lips swollen from your kisses, his hands twitching against your sides like he's barely restraining himself from tearing you apart.

And he's asking. Not taking. Not assuming. Asking.

Something inside you aches, something deep and raw and desperate, and you reach up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheek. "You," you repeat softly, but this time, it’s different. More than just need. More than just hunger. "I just… I just want you, Simon. All of you."

Simon’s expression flickers, something vulnerable crossing his face before he smirks, trying to mask it. "Well, you’ve got me, love," he murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. "Every bloody piece of me."

His hands slide down your sides, teasing over your hips before gripping your thighs, kneading the muscle like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory. He rolls his hips again, and you gasp, fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer. "Tell me what you like," he whispers against your skin, his lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat. "Let me learn you."

You shiver, heat pooling low in your stomach. "Touch me, Simon," you murmur. "Use your hands, your mouth - I don’t care how, just touch me."

He growls, the sound deep and full of want, and then his hands are on the move, exploring, worshipping, claiming. And God, you swear you’ve never felt anything like this before.

You are both undressed within a matter of moments. Even though you've seen it all before, it's different now. A matter of intimacy rather than survival. 

"You're handsome," you say with a giddy smile. 

"And you're gorgeous," he replies smoothly. 

You blush, and it hits you how strange this all is. You knew Ghost for one day, fell asleep in his arms, somehow fell in love (Is this love?), kissed him twice, and then left. Six months later, he comes back to make love to you. "You British sap," you laugh, kissing the tip of his nose. 

Simon chuckles, low and warm, his nose scrunching slightly at the kiss. "You love it," he teases, his hands tracing over your bare skin, slow and reverent.

You never thought you’d see him again. Never thought you’d get to feel him again. But here he is, solid and real, looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. You sigh, brushing a lock of his messy blonde hair back from his forehead. “I don’t even know how this happened,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Simon hums, tilting his head as he looks down at you. “What, love?”

“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “You. Me. Us.” You shake your head, exhaling softly. “One day together, and I spent six months thinking about you. Like an idiot.”

He smirks, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your hip. “Not an idiot,” he murmurs. “I thought about you too.”

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening where they rest against his shoulder. “Yeah?"

“Every damn day,” he confesses, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Every mission, every night. Wonderin’ if you were alright. If you thought about me.” He exhales sharply, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Drove me mad, love. Not knowing if I’d see you again.”

You swallow hard, your hands slipping to cup his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “You did come back for me,” you murmur, stroking your thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks.

“‘Course I did,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “Told you I would.”

You kiss him again, slow and deep, letting yourself fall into him. Into this. Whatever it is, however strange and reckless - it’s yours. You wrap your arms around him even tighter, tilting your head so he can kiss your neck. Then he moves lower, and lower, and even lower.

This is crazy, you think again. I'm not being rational. I should-     

He kisses your hips, your thighs, completely ignoring the fact you haven't shaved past your knees. You giggle when his hair tickles your thighs. One day wasn't enough for you. One week won't be enough. One month, one year, one decade, one century. None of it is enough. Ghost - no, Simon - is the only man for you. 

Six months. Six months of aching, of missing him without realizing just how deep it ran. And now he's here, his mouth tracing fire across your skin, his hands mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t.

And maybe you are. Maybe this is all some fever dream, some cruel trick your heart is playing on you. But then his teeth graze your thigh, and you gasp, fingers threading through his hair, pulling, grounding yourself in him.

"You're unreal," you murmur, watching him through lidded eyes.

Simon looks up, his gaze heavy and dark, the flickering light from the room’s dim lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. "I could say the same about you, love." His voice is a rasp, low and rough, sending a shiver up your spine.

He presses another kiss to the inside of your thigh, his hands gripping your hips like he's anchoring himself there. "I meant what I said," he continues, his lips brushing over sensitive skin. "Every bloody day I thought about you. What you were doing, if you were safe. If you missed me the way I missed you."

Your breath catches in your throat, your grip in his hair tightening. "Simon-"

"You haunted me, love," he admits, his hands sliding up, fingers pressing into your waist. "Like a ghost."

That makes you laugh, a breathless, shaky sound. "You're the Ghost," you point out.

"Not when I'm with you," he murmurs, his lips curling into a smirk against your skin. "Not right now." And then he moves, and all thoughts of ghosts and time and logic disappear.

Simon presses a featherlight kiss to your clit. You moan, and he nods in approval, sucking gently. The way he eats pussy should be studied, because he is fucking fantastic at it. He suckles at your clit, before lapping at it, then goes back to sucking. He has to hold your legs open because you're trying to squeeze his head with your thighs, trying to escape the plethora of sensations you're feeling. You arch your back when he sticks the tip of one finger inside your entrance. 

"Oh, Simon!" you gasp, squirming against his mouth. Then he pushes his finger in, slow and gentle. 

"'Atta girl," he praises, which makes you moan. You can see one of his eyebrows shoot up at your reaction. He adds another finger, pumping in the same pattern he sucks at your clit with. "Good girl." 

"Yes-" you breathe. "Yes, yes, yes!" 

He connects the dots quickly. "You like being a good girl?" 

"Simon," you whine, grinding your hips against his mouth. 

"You my good girl?" he asks, kissing your clit again. You let out a lewd sound, somewhere between a moan and a mewl, nodding your head. 

"Yes, Simon!" you exclaim. He curls his fingers into that wonderfully spongy spot inside you, making the muscles in your stomach clench. He makes the most obscene noises while he eats you out. More than obscene. Little sucks and kisses and licks that make it sound like he's eating the most wonderful meal in his life.

Your fingers fly to his hair, aiming for something to ground yourself. There's one thing you forgot to tell him. You're a squirter. "Simon- Simon- Simon-" you gasp, trying to get him to slow down. 

Simon's lips are locked on your pussy, like he's been starving for it for these six months. You can feel heat curling low in your belly, like a snake ready to bite. "So sweet. I could eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Especially dessert." 

His nose bumps your clit and you let out a pitiful whimper. "Simon- I- I'm a..." you can't bring yourself to say it. He curls his fingers up again, and you can feel that familiar feeling deep in your core. Heat and fuzziness all rolled up into one feeling. The one that tells you an orgasm is coming.

"Good girl," he praises, which makes your heart flutter in your chest. You're drunk off the feeling of his mouth. 

Your climax crashes over you in waves, and you can feel Simon flinch back for a second. You want to say sorry, but you're so lost in the sensation of coming, you can't get anything but whiny, breathy moans out. "Simon!" 

"You're a squirter?" he asks, licking his lips after he's lapped up every last bit of slick that came from you. 

You shake your head to clear it. "Yeah, 'M sorry."

"Baby girl, that was fuckin' beautiful." He grins like Cheshire Cat, coming back up to give you a searingly hot kiss. "How am I supposed to not think about you every fucking day, now?" 

Simon had been hard that whole time. He gives himself a few quick strokes before he lines himself up at your entrance. Then he considers you for a moment before sitting on the bed next to you. In the next moment, he pulls you up onto his lap. Simon leans back against the pillows, helping you onto his cock. You keen at the feel of his length inside of you. His lips find your neck, sucking at the hickey that's already there "Oh shit, look at that," he says with a grin, glancing down at your stomach. A swell, barely noticeable to anyone but him and you, is right where you're riding his dick. He presses his palm to it. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight." 

Your room is filled with sinful sounds; squelching, skin against skin, needy groans and moans. Your breath catches at the way your stomach bulges just enough to prove that you're his. "Simon!" you sob, digging your nails into his shoulders. He flips you over so that you're on your back - probably impatient with your slow rolls. The pace he sets is punishing. He kisses your neck, growling, "Fuck, if you keep squeezing me like that, I'm not going to last."

You whimper, overwhelmed by the sensation of his cock thrusting into the sensitive velvet of your pussy. "I- I-"

Simon grins, pressing another deep kiss to your lips. "Didn't think I could fuck you this deep, huh?" His voice is low, teasing, filthy. "Didn't know I could make you feel me right here?" He presses his palm down again. 

"Simon, please-" Your body is trembling.

"Goddamn, baby, you're so fucking perfect," he mutters, rolling his hips slower now, deeper, making sure you feel every inch of him.

You cling to him, every nerve in your body exploding with pleasure. "I got you," he whispers against your skin. "Just let go. Give it to me." 

And God help you, you do. You cum even harder that time, completely and utterly spent. Simon follows soon after, his movements stuttering until his spend pours into you. It's messy, dripping down your thighs and cunt, then onto your bed. He glances down at the sight, the ring of translucent white, the mix of your come and his. "Good God," he whispers, slipping his wonderful cock out of you. You whine at the absence, then immediately blush. 

You can't think. All you know is Simon just fucked the living daylights out of you. And you couldn't be happier. "Simon," you sigh, giving him a fuck-drunk smile.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he says, leaving you just a moment to grab a washcloth to wipe down you, then himself. 

"Shower," you groan, your vision still bleary from pleasure. 

Simon chuckles, scooping you off the bed and taking you into the shower. He turns it on, waiting until it's warm enough to set you inside the tub. He climbs in after you, glancing around at the array of shampoos, conditioners, soaps, face scrubs, and shaving cream that you have. He peppers little kisses against your neck and the back of your shoulders. "You did such a good job," he praises. 

"I think I love you," you say sleepily. 

Simon's heart falls out of his chest, fluttering and flipping like a wild animal he can't control. "I love you, too," he replies.