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capybaramurdock · 25 days ago

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Red Ring Series ♡ Chapter Six ♡

"Through the Glass" (Matt's POV – 21 Days Until the Wedding)

“I tried,” she whispers to herself. “I tried to keep it together.” He steps forward slowly. Quiet. “You did,” he says.

Summary:

He hears her crying through the quiet of 2 a.m., her soft voice breaking over cookie dough and expectations. Matt told himself to keep his distance. But he can’t. Not when she’s unraveling. Not when she still makes cookies for a world that keeps asking too much. They’re trying. In their own broken, tired way. Even if love isn't spoken aloud yet… It's in the spaces between.

♡ Warnings: ♡

💔 emotional breakdowns, stress baking spiral at 2am, minor kitchen burn (be safe sweetie), emotional distance, toxic dad drama, public embarrassment, paparazzi/media tension, guilt-ridden Matt Murdock, unwanted flirting attempt (not reciprocated), soft moments in the wreckage, hurt/comfort but make it repressed, emotional exhaustion, daredevil angst edition, slowburn angst is the main course

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Want to read on ao3? Available there too! https://archiveofourown.org/works/64668514

divider by @dollywons

It’s two in the morning.

Matt knows he should be in bed. Rested. Ready. There’s a charity event later—one her father is parading as a fundraiser for her shelter, complete with photo ops, auction tables, and baked goods arranged like political pawns.

Another wholesome moment of hers was twisted into a marketing stunt.

He’s spent most of the night in his black suit, working through the lingering fury from dinner—the ring, the cameras, the look in her eyes when she said yes. Not because she wanted to, he thinks, but because she had to.

The city bled under his fists. A couple of Russians left with broken ribs and ruined egos. Not a single blow they landed did any damage. He barely let them touch him. That’s how much he needed the release.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He should’ve gone home. Back to his empty apartment and hollow thoughts. But his body moved without asking.

And now he’s here.

Perched on the rooftop above her apartment, crouched in the quiet like some sinner praying for forgiveness.

At first, he doesn’t even mean to listen. He just… does.

The soft shuffle of feet on tile. The whir of an old electric mixer. The scrape of metal trays. The slow, rhythmic crack of eggshells and the steady muttering of someone trying desperately not to fall apart.

Then...

A sharp clang.

He hears the tray hit the counter harder than it should have.

Followed by her voice. Low. Broken.

“...God...come on, why can’t I just get it right....?”

Another crash. A tin measuring cup clatters across the tile.

“I forgot...I forgot the stupid cookies....forgot the whole damn event, and he’s going to say I’m unreliable, and then I’m going to...”

Her voice breaks.

A sharp inhale. A quiet, crumbling sound in the back of her throat.

Matt’s hands tighten into fists.

He shouldn’t be up here listening to her cry like this. He’d told himself he was going to keep his distance. He’d promised himself that after what he said in the car.

But he also promised her something else, didn’t he?

“If you let me, I’ll stand beside you.”

And here she is. Alone. At two in the morning. Standing in the wreckage of too much pressure and not enough support.

Her voice slips out again—barely above a whisper now.

“I just wanted to do one thing right. One little thing. Why can't anything I do go right for me?”

There’s a sniff. He hears her wipe her sleeve across her face.

“I used to love this. Why doesn't it feel right anymore?” she murmurs. “Baking used to feel…so safe. Quiet. Mine.”

She pauses.

Then, quieter still:

“Maybe I should have moved. Somewhere stupid and sweet. Somewhere safe, and just opened up that little bakery. I could have gotten away from him and every little damn thing he demands from me.”

Matt swallows hard, his throat dry.

She sounds so tired. So done.

And it hits him harder than anything the Russians threw at him tonight.

Because she’s not supposed to be like this. She’s not supposed to be breaking.

She’s the good one.

He doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until the gravel under his boots shifts.

He stops himself.

He can’t go down there.

He has no right to.

But God, he wants to.

And he knows...

He knows he’s part of why she’s like this tonight.

He hates it.

He hates that his words, his distance, and his silence helped shatter something so soft.

The weight of her voice saying “I just wanted to do one thing right” presses harder on his chest than any villain’s blow ever could.

And that ring...

God, the ring she pressed back into his hand...it still sat heavy in his pocket like a curse, a reminder.

You said you’d stand beside her.

But instead, he just stood still.

Watched her break, more than she already is.

Said things he didn’t mean because he was scared of her, of himself, of how real this is.

He moves away from the edge.

He should go, give her privacy.

But then...

A sharp hiss of pain.

“Shit...ouch...shitshitshit”

The tray slams down on the counter, hard. Louder than the first time.

His head whips back toward the sound.

Another muttered curse. Then water. Rushing. Too fast. Too cold.

He hears the sharp breath she tries to stifle. The sound of a sob that escapes free anyway.

Whimpers. Muffled curses. Words slurring together under the sound of the faucet. Like she’s trying not to cry and failing all over again.

She burned her hand.

She’s in pain, again...and still alone.

Matt’s heart twists in his chest.

He takes a step forward, just one.

He shouldn’t go down there.

But now all he can hear is her. Her pain. Her voice. Her breath.

He wants to be there for her, just like he promised, but would it really help anything at the moment?

“No, it wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change anything.”

You already made it worse, dumbass.

He stays for just a few moments longer, making sure she at least treated her burn properly before he goes.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

The next morning, Matt groans loudly as he gets out of bed.

His body protested immediately - tight, sore, bruised in places he hadn’t noticed until the adrenaline wore off.

He hadn't realized it in the moment, but yeah… he definitely overdid it with the Russians last night.

Not that he’d admit it to anyone.

Not even Foggy.

And especially not her.

Not that he’d tell either of them about his night job, what he does every night, or any of this.

He presses a gentle hand to his ribs as he gets up, fingers brushing the warm edge of a forming bruise.

He can’t stop thinking about her voice, cracked and quiet, so sad, whispering to herself in the dark.

He should’ve left sooner. Should’ve walked away instead of listening like a ghost haunting her from the rooftop.

But he didn’t.

And now the guilt weighs much heavier than the bruises.

He drags himself through his morning routine, methodical and mechanical, trying not to picture the burn on her hand or the sound of her sniffling through a tray of ruined cookies.

He already deals with so much self-loathing.

His finer suits, tailored to fit perfectly, are both out of commission for the next few days.

He’s worn them too recently for something this public.

So he goes with another one. Still nice. Still formal. Just…not quite right.

The jacket tugs at his shoulders more than it should, the fit looser at the waist, the sleeves almost too small and tight on his arms.

It feels like a metaphor, somehow—trying to wear something almost right. That almost fits. But doesn’t.

His phone blares out with a notification of a text in the quiet of his apartment, disrupting his thoughts.

Once he finishes pulling his dress shoes on, he checks it, hearing from one of her father's assistants that he sent a car for him and that it should be there any minute now with her ready and inside as well.

His fingers tighten around the phone. Of course, she’s already in the car. Of course, he’s late to this, too.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

They don’t say much when he slides into the car beside her.

She doesn't even greet him like she did at the restaurant last night.

She’s staring out the window, hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable. So tired, so distant. Still sporting the smallest, minuscule traces of flour near her knuckles. It’s faint, barely visible, but he can smell it.

He can sense the exhaustion rolling off her.

The silence extends, heavy and suffocating.

Not at all, like some of the comforting silences they've had between them before.

Then, Matt lightly reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket.

He doesn’t look at her when he does it. Just gently pulls her hand from her lap and cradles it in his, cautious not to brush against the bandage on her finger.

No explanation. No warning.

He gently slides the ring back on.

It settles into position like it never left. But they both know better.

His voice is soft, almost like an afterthought.

“Figured it’d be easier if we didn’t forget it.”

Like it’s practical. Like it’s not guilt twisting inside his chest. Like it’s not him desperately trying to pretend he didn’t break something precious just the night before.

He hopes it sounds casual. Like nothing. Like just a line.

But his voice is too quiet, too soft, even to his own ears.

She still doesn’t look at him.

But he sees the way her lashes lower. The way her fingers twitch slightly in his hand, like she’s thinking about pulling away, but doesn’t.

She lets him put the ring on.

Let it sit there like it belongs.

And then, barely audible over the hum of the car:

“Right. Wouldn’t want to mess up the image.”

It’s not sharp. Not bitter. It’s worse than that.

It’s tired.

She pulls her hand back slowly, tucking it into her lap like it doesn’t mean anything. Like, he doesn’t mean anything.

And Matt doesn’t reach for her again.

She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even glance.

So he tries again.

Just one more time.

He shifts slightly in his seat, leans a little closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough to let his voice drop, warm and teasing, like it used to be before everything cracked open.

“You know… I’ve really missed your cookies since that first night I came to the shelter.”

It’s not just about the cookies. They both know that.

She’s quiet for a beat. Doesn’t look at him.

Then she says, voice even and brittle:

“Lucky for you, you’ll get to try one at the event.”

Matt swallows hard.

There’s no warmth in it. No smile.

Just quiet hurt tucked behind a perfectly measured line.

He leans back in his seat again, like the breath’s been knocked from his chest. She’s right there, but he’s never felt further away.

Yeah.

He deserved that.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

Matt hears the camera clicks before they even step out of the car.

She hesitates when the driver opens the door. It’s so subtle, most wouldn’t catch it, just the briefest inhale. But Matt hears it. Feels it. Like the moment before a fall.

Then she steps out, perfect posture, her plastered-on polite smile, eyes a little too glassy.

He follows, keeping his hand near the small of her back, not touching, just close. A silent gesture. A ghost of protection.

She doesn’t acknowledge it.

They’re immediately greeted by flashes and soft greetings, the hum of well-meaning voices from people who have no idea what they’re witnessing.

She’s praised for her “incredible dedication.”

He’s praised for being “such a steady presence.”

The second they walk around the car and the driver opens the trunk, Matt smells the cookies. He's surprised he didn't pick up on the scent before now.

Sweet. Buttery. Vanilla and cinnamon cling to the crisp spring air.

He doesn’t need to see them to know she made them herself.

He knows the scent. Remembers it from the shelter. From that night.

But when she lifts the tray from the back of the car, balancing it with both hands, he falters.

Because the cookies aren’t just good. They’re flawless.

When the cookies shift slightly, he can sense the texture, the weight of them, and he hears her heartbeat increase in worry.

Perfect circles. Even spacing. Each one frosted in pale pinks and soft creams, little piped details added with obvious care.

And for the first time, he realizes...

He has no idea how long she was up last night finishing them.

He’d left the rooftop when her sobs had turned to silence and the water finally shut off. But that was hours ago.

How long did she keep baking?

How long did she push through the tears just to make sure this part of the day went right?

Did she actually even sleep? God, she probably went straight from making the cookies to getting ready for the event.

She carries the tray like it’s something sacred. Like if she can just get this one thing perfect, everything else will stay in place.

It guts him. Especially with now knowing what happens next.

They walk into the event. The venue is warm and glowing—twinkle lights strung across the ceiling like it’s all effortless joy. The sounds of music, clinking glass. A dozen conversations are happening all at once. Tables are covered in pastel linens, platters of sweets set out like offerings to some benevolent god of community and good press.

Matt can hear the light fluttering of a banner, too, likely with the name of the event that she came up with herself, "Comfort in Every Crumb."

She smiles automatically once more, thanking the volunteers, nodding graciously at guests. But Matt can feel it—the tension in her shoulders. The way she holds the tray just a little too tightly.

And then—

“Oh, those are yours?”

The voice comes from a woman with a champagne flute and a dripping, fake sweet-tea accent. A gold name tag hangs from her pearl-studded jacket: “Event Sponsor.”

Matt tilts his head slightly, listens.

“I mean, you didn’t make them all yourself, did you?” she continues with a half-laugh. “They’re so perfect. I just assumed someone helped you.”

The smile on her face falters.

Matt hears the shift in her breathing. The pause. The effort it takes for her to stay polite.

“Nope,” she says softly. “Just me.”

The woman hums. “Well, that’s impressive. But still, you really should thank whoever helped. It’s a lot of work for just one person.”

She still doesn’t snap. Just nods faintly, like the words are being absorbed rather than answered.

And then, like fate is laughing, the woman reaches forward to grab one from the tray, her bracelet catching slightly on the edge.

A smudge of blue frosting smears across the front of her pretty pastel dress.

“Oh! Whoops!”

Too loud. Too bright. Too fake.

It was obvious she did it on purpose.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! Here—” She rubs at it with a cocktail napkin, which only makes it much worse. Everyone knows you should dab at a stain, not rub. “You really should’ve let someone carry that for you, sweetheart.”

Matt hears the breath catch in her throat.

She steps back, just one step, but it’s enough.

“I-It’s fine,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “Really. Um. It’s fine.”

Her eyes blink too fast.

Her grip tightens on the tray. One of the cookies slides a little too close to the edge.

She doesn’t cry.

But Matt hears it. That tremble beneath her voice. That deep, desperate push to keep it together. The sound of the tray in her hands setting down too fast.

And that’s when the flashes start.

Cameras. Phones. Lights.

She’s not sobbing. She’s not yelling. She’s not breaking in any loud, dramatic way.

But she’s unraveling. And she knows it.

All of the cameras catch the moment. Her ruined dress. Her expression. That flicker of something raw and real in her eyes.

The society guest just laughs. “Aww, don’t worry! You still look absolutely precious.”

And that’s it.

Matt moves the second he hears her footsteps retreating toward the back hall, too fast. Too stiff. Her shoes clicking against the tile like a heartbeat in freefall. However, he pauses for just a moment, his hands gripping his cane tightly.

He wants to storm after her and fix whatever he can. But he can’t, not quite yet.

Because the guest is still laughing.

Still wiping her fingers on a napkin like this is some silly, forgettable moment. Like it wasn’t the final crack in someone already struggling to hold herself together.

“Such a sweet girl,” the woman says absently. “So polite. Bit quiet for the scene, though. Probably a relief you’ll be doing all the talking in your marriage, hmm?”

Matt’s jaw tightens.

He forces his hands to stay on his cane.

“You know,” the guest purrs, stepping a little closer, “if things ever get too suffocating—public image and marriages, y'know, all that—you can always come to these events solo. We’d make sure you had fun.”

She presses it like it’s a joke.

But there’s nothing playful in her voice. Just entitlement.

And something worse, like she sees him as a trophy. Something she could steal.

Like the woman she just belittled isn’t even real. Even though she's the one worth much more in this whole scenario.

Matt turns his head just slightly toward her. He doesn’t smile.

“Thanks for your concern,” he says coolly. “But I prefer to stand next to the woman who actually did the work.”

The woman blinks. Surprised.

He doesn’t give her time to recover.

“You smeared frosting on her dress. You didn’t apologize. And you tried to erase everything she made with a single comment.”

A pause.

“I can’t tell if that’s jealousy or insecurity, but either way, don’t come near her again.”

She gasps, offended, scandalized. But Matt’s already walking away.

He doesn’t wait for her response.

He’s done playing polite.

Now he just has to find the one person in this building who’s always been worth protecting.

Luckily, he hears her and finds her quickly, just outside the catering area, her breathing uneven, her back pressed against the wall.

“I tried,” she whispers to herself. “I tried to keep it together.”

He steps forward slowly. Quiet.

“You did,” he says.

She jumps. Matt is too quiet when he moves, she hadn’t heard him coming.

“M-Matt?...” Her voice cracks.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says softly.

“But the event-”

“They already got what they wanted and needed,” he murmurs. “So did your father.”

She looks at him, eyes shining, face flushed with embarrassment, and something in her finally breaks out loud:

“I didn’t even want to come to this, he made me think up an event for the shelter.”

He nods once, voice low. “I know.”

And that’s when Matt makes the call for both of them, steps outside, calls for the car, keeps her close but doesn’t crowd.

They can hear the flashes of paparazzi going off when they're found again.

They try to ask her questions about what happened with the sponsor and about the event in general, but she doesn't say anything, she can't.

She just lets Matt guide her into the backseat. She's too exhausted to put up much more of a fight.

Matt whispers instructions to the driver, doesn't tell her where they're going.

Because he already knows.

She's coming home with him.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

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jewishcissiekj · 23 days ago

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"I look at Meltdown with pride... and disgust. What a good little soldier I turned her into. Shame on me." CABLE DO YOU WANT ME DEAD DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT

#yael's x men ramblings #the panel itself is ugly as hell but goddddd #nicieza and liefeld have so many problems but the worst part is they understand those characters so well #(x-force 2004 6)#like it's the world's ugliest comic but it's one of the best shatterstar comics #unreal

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sky-is-the-limit · 2 years ago

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Omw to read every single smut written about Kyle 'Gaz' fucking Garrick so my maladaptive daydreaming can go crazy.

P.s: there are not enough.

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jordosprout · 1 year ago

Note

Hello! I have a fic idea where the reader has a sensory meltdown and even though the others try to help they don't really know what to do but then Tech comes in with all the know-how on how to approach/help.

Maybe it could be taking place during the race Tech did and the reader gets overwhelmed by the sound and the heat and anxiety and Tech comes in for the rescue after the race ends, or maybe on a mission and Hunter asks Tech to take you aside/back to the marauder and tells him that they have it handled.

I think it'd be cool if Tech silently brought out sensory items and waited patiently with you and then opens up about how he has the same issue but maybe he usually shuts down instead or has a meltdown alone. Sorry I had a few ideas I wanted to share, hope this ask isn't too overwhelming! <3

Alright, took me awhile but I finished your request! I ended up going with the race plot :) I apologize for the wait. I wanted to do my best to portray everything correctly.

Sprouting Within the Soul

Tech x GN!Reader SFW Comfort Fic (gender-neutral pronouns used, little physical description.) (Can be read as platonic)

Reader is a phytotoxin specialist and becomes a clone medic. Story takes place on Safa Toma where Tech comforts them during an autistic meltdown.

Warnings: Talk of overstimulation, stimming, meltdowns, and gentle praise.

Notes: Phytotoxin- plant poison. I'm still getting used to Tumblr so no fancy dividers yet :,) I am working on making some for personal use

WC: 3,955

Setting up readers' story, skip if wanted!

You didn’t enjoy medicine as much as you did vegetation. But the two interests mixed into a love for phytotoxin, and you found yourself as a specialist clone medic 2 months before you fled with Omega; working alongside her during that time. You grew deeply attached to the special little clone; knowing nothing could separate you.

She told you everything she could about the Clone Force 99; from their names all the way to their genetic mutations. And during one of those one-sided conversations, she told you about the inhibitor chips. This is what sparked your questions about the clones true purpose.

Your interactions with the boys themselves were brief. However, that would suddenly change.

Omega told you that she felt that Kamino was in danger, and you believed her immediately. It didn’t matter what it was that made her feel that way. You trusted Omega, and the thought of not knowing if she was safe scared you. You accompanied her, and her brothers, off-world; not a second guess in your mind.

Leaving the life you came accustomed to was hard. Especially when you were being so abruptly transitioned to a chaotic one. But the others, especially her brother Tech, did their best to ease you into the new life.

With Hunter and Echo being off on their own mission, it was just you Wrecker, Omega, and Tech today. A day you'd absorb every calm second you were given.

You were sitting beside Tech at the bar, him looking into poisonous plants for you.

You noticed that when he found out about your love for the subject, he took it personally. He took every moment he could to talk to you about the various flora of the universe. It wasn't a rare occurrence for him to share something you already knew. But that never mattered or annoyed you. You were just happy someone took part in your interests. Sometimes, he would tell you something that you surprisingly knew nothing of. Others, he would mention something you knew plenty about and you’d talk to him about it for hours.

It felt good having someone to talk to (or at) that clearly enjoyed it.

Just as he would offer you his ear, you would offer him yours. Always listening and enjoying whatever facts he had on his current interests. His passion for the things he knew made them all the more interesting. His voice and excitement would never get old to you.

Even though you felt seen by Tech, you still had moments of worrying you said something wrong. He never gave you a reason to think that you may have offended him, but you couldn’t help the anxiety. So you would often overexplain your intentions. He allowed you to say what you felt you needed to in order clear your intentions, and would then follow up in calm reassurance. He was always a source of calm patient energy, something you never got enough of.

But your day was swiftly stolen by a green Trandoshen. Cid, of course, had a last-minute mission for the four of you. You huffed to yourself, you just got comfortable watching Omega and Wrecker’s Mantell-Mix bet!

You were tracing circles with your finger on the countertop; cheek resting on its cool surface. Omega and Wrecker were playing Dejarik. Hearing them laugh and get competitive with each other made you smile.

“Hey I heard that! Don't get sassy with me Bacta Bunny. I have a mission for you and you're taking it!”

You scowled at the nickname, your reaction being noticed only by Omega, who looked at you briefly before looking at Cid. You found the nickname demeaning- as if all you were was the occasional medic the batch needed.

“Hunter and Echo aren't back from the other mission yet.” Omega told Cid, confused as to why they would do something without them.

“I would not call transporting 50 cases of nerf nuggets a ‘mission’. Nor is it a proper use of our skill set,” Tech added to Omega’s statement.

You rested your head into the palm of your hand, leaning into it, “Tech isn't wrong Cid. You're wasting what ya’ got. There are better uses of our skill y’know.”

“Yeah, well, your skill set will come in real useful on this one. Especially you, Muscles. You're gonna be my security crew.”

Your head lifted at that, “Hey now security for what? What did you do that requires security?”

Tech nodded in agreement, “We will require a more detailed briefing than that.”

“No time. The shuttle's waiting.” Cid dodged, already at the door. You disliked how secretive Cid was. Why couldn't she just tell you what you needed to know?

Wrecker tossed Omega her little helmet, and of course, Omega gave you all her usual wishful thinking.

“Maybe it'll be fun.”

“Heh, works for me.”

“Wrecker, you're saying that as if you're difficult to convince,” you bantered teasingly, you loved the big guy but you weren't wrong. He was easy to convince. He just grinned and gave you a mix of a laugh and grunt before following Omega.

You sat for a moment, wishing you could easily adapt the same way Wrecker and Omega did. But you couldn't help but feel anxious with the sudden change to your schedule.

Tech sighed and you gave him a small pat on the shoulder before jumping off your barstool.

It shouldn't be all that bad, should it?

As soon as your shuttle landed, you were met with muffled crowds and people.

‘Just a little noise. I can handle this’

“I am beginning to understand the need for added security in a place like this.” Tech mentioned to the group, taking in the nature of the people around him.

“Safa Toma can be a little rough around the edges if you don't know what you're doing. But lucky for us I know my way around. And if things get dicey, that's where you come in.”

You looked at the back of Omega’s head once Cid said that last sentence. You weren't particularly fond of how much danger she was constantly in. Yes, she's a clone like her brothers. And clones were indeed made to fight. But she's only a kid and is already dealing with so much. You placed your left hand on her right shoulder, and she gave you two pats in response. Something she always did to let you know she'd be fine.

But once you exited the building, and were blasted with Safa Toma’s boiling sun and restless crowds, you felt like you were the one who might not be fine. You took a deep breath to ground yourself, but the air dried out your nose making you more uncomfortable.

‘This shouldn't be a long mission. It's just security.’

The cheering got louder as you became surrounded by people, constantly getting bumped into. The machines on what appeared to be a race track flashed by directly in front of you, any loose hair you had whipped in the direction they flew towards; tickling your skin.

You stayed behind Omega and held your hands together, rubbing the flesh between your left hand’s pointer and thumb to soothe yourself.

“Whoa!” Omega was leaning on the rail, trying to take in everything happening on the track.

“It's called Riot Racing.” Cid said, clearly only talking to Omega.

One of the racers began shooting at an opponent ahead of it, resulting in the victim crashing into one of the walls.

“Wow! Did you see that?” Wrecker excitedly asked Omega. You glanced at Tech whose eyes were wide behind his goggles.

‘Well if Omega didn't Tech definitely did.’

“It appears anything goes out there.”

The PA system announcer began narrating the scene in front of all of you. Declaring the steal of the lead, that was apparently carried out by Cid’s racer.

You blindly followed Cid and the others after TAY-0’s win, falling slightly behind. You fixated on your hands, attempting to tune out the obnoxious droid in front of you. Any other day his quips would pull a small laugh from you. But the sun felt like it was getting hotter, and the crowd seemed louder and fuller. You didn't understand how Omega was handling it so well, she didn't have the climate-controlled armor her brothers did.

‘If Omega can handle it then why can't I?’

“Your ringer is a droid?” Tech queried Cid, getting what would barely count as a real answer from the droid instead.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. You have a problem with droids, human? You think you can make the split-second calculation to win out there? You want to challenge TAY-0?” the droid asked, defensively getting up in Tech's face. And of course, Tech gave little to no physical reaction.

“I do not have enough information about this sport to determine that at this time.”

“Then take a seat, spectacled spectator.”

Okay, you held in a snort with that one. That was really clever.

Wrecker on the other hand was quite upfront with his reaction, repeating TAY-0 and bumping Tech.

You sat against a wall as repairs were made to the droid's speeder. You chose to ignore what was going on for the time being. You weren't needed at the moment, so you should take advantage of that. You closed your eyes and pressed into the wall, trying to grasp all the peace you were given.

Which wasn't much apparently.

A large man found his way into the pit, three smaller men behind him. You stood after he greeted Cid, his tone making you realize he was the reason she needed security. And when he approached Omega you quickly made your way behind her next to Wrecker; all of your hands making their way to your designated blasters.

“Not gonna introduce me to your new crew?”

‘Why’s that matter to him?’

He gave a hearty laugh, “They're not gonna help you win.”

Cid stood up to Millegi, looking much shorter than she already did in front of him.

“Oh, I know I'm gonna win.”

After a few seconds of intimidation from Millegi, he offered a bet. It was frustrating how quickly Cid agreed. Of course, she'd take any chance she could to make some credits.

You spaced out for a moment before Cid insisted on hurrying up with the minor repairs. She was going to be much pushier now that credits were on the line.

You paced behind the others, feeling restless now being back at the track. You looked up only for a moment when Wrecker returned, then back to the ground. You could feel your patience for today running low. You were rather surprised to hear Tech say he didn't know who'd win. But you knew he'd figure it out eventually, he always does.

But when TAY-0 took damage, and Millegi’s racer won the round, you knew Millegi wouldn't be far.

So you rushed to help collect the pieces of TAY-0 from the track and held your guard for when he'd eventually show up.

And he did, of course, with Cid not having any credits to give him.

“Wanna step in here? I didn't bring you three for the company.”

And with your cue, you put on your helmet and hovered a hand over your blaster. Millegi's men were quick to point their own at you. Of course, Omega spoke up, “Wait how much does she owe?”

“More than you got, kid.”

“Well,” she paused for a moment, “we're not done yet.”

“Omega…” you whispered, “Don't. Stand down.”

“That's right. Looks like you're done to me.”

“One last race. If you win, we pay you double.”

You groaned into your helmet and shared looks between Tech and Wrecker. This could either go really well or really bad.

“If we win, we get Cid.”

“You don't know what you're getting into, kid.”

You followed in suit with the boys, Tech speaking up first, “I'm inclined to agree with him, Omega.”

“Yeah, I'm inclined too. We don't know anything about racing” Wrecker added, not at all slick about the confession.

“Omega this can very easily end very badly.” You told her worriedly

“They're gonna hurt Cid if we do nothing.”

You breathed in deeply through your nose. Omega was not one to lose determination. And you all knew that. You crossed your arms and stood behind her. If this is what she really wants to do, then you'll just have to stand with her.

“So we have a deal?”

“We race tomorrow. And I keep Cid as collateral.”

As his men collected Cid, Millegi gave a warning, “For your sakes, you better be able to pay up.”

You looked down at Omega, “I suppose that went well?”

After Omega spent some time on the speeder, you offered to take her place to get a break. She nodded and jumped down from the table, you taking her place.

“Do we really need to fix him right away? He isn't exactly pleasant company,” you joked slightly.

“Well, he is already partially operational. So it is a bit late now. Speaking of, with a few more adjustments, he may be capable of racing.”

TAY-0 was basically summoned by your conversation, “Uh, that is hilarious. I am more than capable. I am ready to– Where are my arms and legs!?” You laughed to yourself and looked up to finish the repairs that were left on the speeder. TAY-0 was entertaining, but he's also just… a lot.

Wrecker came into the pit and dropped off the rest of TAY-0's parts.

“No, that's not how you connect the servo. Let TAY-0 instruct you how to do this properly.”

You grinned at Tech’s response. What can you say? You enjoyed his sass.

Nightfall came, and Safa Toma was finally quieter and cooler. But you still felt uneasy. All day has been dealing with people and TAY-0, and now you have to sleep in the pit. You tossed in your sleeping bag, Wrecker and Omega already sleeping beside each other. You covered your eyes with your forearm, hoping the pressure would help you sleep.

You lifted it though when you heard rustling beside you.

“Hey Tech, finished working on TAY-0?”

“Yes, he is fully operational for tomorrow's race.”

You nodded and yawned before turning on your side. The ground was hard and the sleeping bag didn’t help as much as it should.

“Problem?” Tech asked, now behind you.

“Oh, no Tech I’m alright. Just been a long day and I didn’t realize how long we would be here for. But I’m alright.”

He shuffled, likely laying down himself. You knew he could sleep just about anywhere, and honestly, it’s a skill you were a bit jealous of.

“I understand. I am not a fan of sudden plans myself, let alone ones with little explanation. I may be used to dealing with them, but they are still difficult.”

You smiled to yourself. “I’m sure we won’t be here too long.”

“Hopefully not”

You wished Cid would have prepared you for where you would be in some way. It felt like you were being cooked underneath your gear and it was miserable. Even when you stayed behind in the pit, there was still all of the noise and the fact you were somewhere completely new with no way to get away.

Two days in a row of dry heat. Two days of screaming. Two days of an obnoxious amount of people and tense interactions. And it was getting to you. Normally it wouldn’t bother you, or at the very least if it did you’d be able to get away from everything. But not being able to escape made it feel like you were suffocating. And as Omega and Wrecker cheered along with the crowd, you slipped away to find quiet.

It proved to be a harder task than you thought it would be, that in itself made you feel worse. But after struggling to find a place to rest, you gave up and decided a place with no people would be enough. You couldn’t help tearing off your helmet and gear, slamming it to the ground as you took your frustrations out on it. You slumped against the first sturdy object you found. The shade was minimal, but it was there. At least you were alone.

After a few minutes, you faintly heard Tech’s name being chanted. And after 5 more standard minutes went by, your comlink beeped. You ignored it, only for it to beep again. And when it did, you tore it off and threw it as far as you could. You couldn’t stand the noise. Or any noise at this point of your mental state.

You covered your ears and held your eyes shut, blocking out as much as you could.

Tech was surprised when he exited his speeder and you weren’t with Wrecker or Omega. And when he asked about your whereabouts, they were surprised too, worrying him even more.

“They were behind me!” Worry and defensiveness laced Wrecker’s tone. They both knew that Safa Toma wasn’t a safe planet for someone to go off by themselves. And after Tech commed you twice with no response, he was definitely certain something wasn’t right.

“I will be back, I am going to track the com signal and check in.”

“I wanna come too!” Omega pleaded with Tech, but he shook his head.

“Negative. We do not know the situation. If assistance is required, then you will be notified.”

Omega didn’t like the idea of not going with, but listened anyway. Wrecker keeping her occupied until Cid and Millegi showed up.

Following your com signal, he eventually found you. He was relieved to see you were safe.

“Ah there you are.” You didn’t respond. At first Tech thought you just didn’t hear him, so he tried again.

“Problem?”

You said nothing, instead shifting where you sat. He said it again. But again, there was nothing. He approached.

He saw all of your gear strewn about on the ground around you. Then took a moment to study your body language. Your hands were over your ears, and your eyes were tightly shut. You made yourself small where you sat.

��Oh’

He looked around to try and see what he could do to change your surroundings, but when he couldn’t find anything he chose to sit beside you. Your eyes were still squeezed shut, moisture at their corners as you snapped your fingers. Your body couldn’t decide between refusing stimuli or letting it out. He remembered the one-time use earplugs he kept on him for Hunter (or for himself), taking them out of a pocket and placing them next to you.

“Here,” he said softly, only saying what was necessary.

You grabbed them and placed them in your ears, taking in a shaky breath. You brought your knees to your face and pressed them into your eyes. Your hands were free to move about however they needed to.

He chose that simply offering his presence until you expressed you needed him would be best. He knew that sometimes interacting with others during a meltdown was hard. At least, it was for him. He grabbed his data pad from one of his many pockets to occupy himself while he gave you time. He would be there when you were ready, no matter how long that might be. It would be a few minutes before you said anything or acknowledged him in any way.

“Did you win?”

He looked up at you, your cheek resting on your knee as you looked in the opposite direction of Tech. Your sudden break of silence caught him off guard.

“Of course, was there any doubt?” He asked back. You shook your head no and smiled to yourself before frowning again.

“Can you hug me?” you asked him quietly. He hummed in confirmation before lifting the arm closest to you. Turning around and seeing his arm open for you, you leaned into his side. He squeezed you gently, giving you the pressure you needed in that moment.

You sat together, Tech finding his own comfort from the stress of the past two days with you. He rubbed your arm with his thumb before finding a strand of your hair to twist in his fingers. Breaking the silence when he felt you were ready.

“Why did you not say you were overstimulated?”

You rubbed the flesh between your thumb and finger, “I… I don’t know. I was embarrassed. Everyone else seemed fine and I was- am frustrated that I’m not. It bothers me.”

He looked down at you quizzically, “Why would you be embarrassed? It is completely normal to have different needs. Even clones are different from each other, in one way or another. It is expected.” He told you.

“I know that but it doesn’t feel like the kind of ‘different’ that just makes someone unique I guess. I feel weak, but I know I need to be strong for everybody.”

Tech was quiet for a moment to figure out the right thing to say. He knows how you’re feeling. He’s felt the same way. He took in a deep breath before he spoke, “Being autistic does not make you weak. The way you receive and process information in your brain is different. It is okay to allow yourself time for it to do that. I promise, it is okay to have these needs. I have them too.”

“You do?”

“I do. While I do not have meltdowns often, I frequently have shutdowns. That does not make me a less efficient soldier. Genetically modifying me to be autistic was not an accident. There are desirable traits in autistic people. For example, I have exceptional attention to detail. I have a strong memory that allows me to retain important information. I am loyal. Of course there is more. But I do not wish to come across as egotistical.”

You sat there with Tech’s words. You never thought about the fact that, perhaps, nothing was wrong with you. Just different. You looked up, looking just past Tech’s eyes but flicking to them slightly before asking, “What is there that is good about me?”

He quirked his usual half-smile and looked up into the sky, “For starters, you are empathetic, more so than some. While I am sure this may be difficult for you at times, it allows you to be more compassionate. You are honest and direct, making your transition into our force easier as you are too honest to be distrusted. You are passionate and determined. No matter how many times you fall, you get up and try a new approach. You are not only passionate with things, but with people. You have spent much time learning what our crew members like and dislike, and act accordingly. You are deeply passionate in your relationships and I admire that about you. I could continue if you would like.”

You shook your head, cheeks slightly warm at the praise you asked for.

You found yourself leaning deeper into Tech and he welcomed you. You loved that you were able to find comfort in the exceptional clone beside you. It felt good not having to be alone, and being not only understood but accepted. His armor cooled you but his presence warmed you to your core.

“Thank you Tech I-...I think I’m ready to go now.” You told him shifting away slightly to prep yourself to get up. He nodded and stood, offering a hand to help you to your feet. You smiled up at him softly, feeling something in your soul sprouting in his light.

#tbb tech #clone force 99 #the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #tbb wrecker #omega bad batch #tbb comfort #tech fluff #tech x reader #tech tbb #tech comfort #this took too long and i am moderately embarrassed #why is embarrassed spelled like that #oh god its 6:23 am i need to sleep #happy reading!!!!!!!!!!!!#autistic tech #autistic reader

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redislazy · 7 months ago

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Deadly Attachments, Chapter 06

<< Chapter 05　|　Chapter 07 >>

[EVENTUAL SMUT] - Minors DNI > ao3 <

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x female!Reader

Summary: As a skilled mercenary, you've navigated countless high-stakes missions—until one job puts you in the crosshairs of Task Force 141 and the elusive "Ghost." Now forced into an uneasy alliance, you’re drawn into a dangerous game of shifting loyalties and hidden motives. But as the stakes climb higher, one question lingers: how close can you get to the man who was meant to be a shadow in your path?

Content Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Military Action & Romance, Mercenaries, Soldiers, Non-Canon Antagonists, Eventual Smut, Military Inaccuracies, Slow Burn, Will add smut-specific tags later as the story goes

You arrive early to the briefing room where Ghost is already waiting along with Soap and Gaz, leaning back in his chair comfortably, looking as unreadable as ever. He’s busying himself with some papers, seeming completely oblivious to your presence, so you just stare as long as you can.

“You plannin’ to burn a hole through my head, or you got something useful to say?” His tone is flat, all irritation and none of the warmth you thought you’d seen last night.

You huff and sit across from him. “Just making sure you haven’t completely lost it yet, old man. Thought I might be doing you a favor.”

He raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth pulls in a faint smirk. “Nice of you, but I’ll manage. Maybe worry about yourself first, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, feeling the familiar sarcasm you've grown accustomed to. “Right. Sorry for checking in on the team’s resident grump.”

He scoffs, shifting in his chair as he returns his attention to the paperwork. “Better me being a ‘grump’ than someone who can’t hold her liquor. Didn’t take you for the lightweight type.”

The comment hits, bringing a slight heat to your face, but you brush it off with a shrug. "That's how you know I had a good time."

He glances at you briefly, almost like he’s weighing something, but his expression stays as neutral as ever. “That's how one causes trouble.”

The banter feels… normal, comfortable even. No strange glances, no hidden softness, and certainly no hints that he intends to bring last night up. You feel almost relieved. Whatever happened, it doesn’t seem to have shifted anything between you.

Nothing’s changed. And for now, you’re perfectly fine with that.

As he continues busying himself, you sit in silence, your eyes flicking over to Ghost as he moves around the room. He’s completely absorbed in whatever task he’s working on, never glancing your way, but you can’t help but watch him.

The way he stands, shoulders squared and back stiff, like he’s ready for anything, always alert. His mask is still firmly in place as always, but there’s something about the way he moves, how precise and controlled everything he does is, that makes you think he’s not just playing the role of the soldier. Perhaps all this time, it's truly just who he is.

Your gaze drifts to the way his hands move, brushing over the papers on the table, his fingers rough, yet graceful in a way that feels… deliberate. He’s not careless, never in a rush. Everything about him is measured. Even the way he breathes. Like he’s never not prepared for what’s coming next.

You can still feel the warmth of his hand against your face, the delicate pressure, how he lingered there for moments longer than necessary. His eyes on you, not cold, but something else—something that makes your chest tighten just remembering it. The way he brushed his thumb over your lips last night comes back to you, unbidden. The way he seemed to want to burn that moment into his memory, or maybe it was just you imagining things because you’d had a few too many drinks. You know how that goes.

But then you see it again—how his jaw tightens when he’s working, the faint furrow between his brows when he’s concentrating. You remember his eyes, the way they looked at you last night—not like you were just some mistake or a distraction, but like you mattered.

You bite your lip, eyes narrowing slightly. And just like that, it clicks.

You like Ghost. Not like some sudden revelation, more like a fact you’ve known for a while now but only just admitted to yourself. It’s not hard to see why, really. You’re not blind. The guy’s impossible to ignore.

He is intense, guarded, sure, but there’s something underneath it all that draws you in—his quiet authority, the way he handles situations, the way he holds his ground even when things get messy. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice how his voice, even when he’s pissed off, somehow still manages to send a shiver down your spine. Or the way he stands, like the weight of the world could rest on his shoulders, and he’d still carry it with no complaints.

You’ve seen men acting like him before, the type who carry themselves like they’re always in control, always ready for the next mission. But Ghost is different, very distinct. You know he's someone who’s had the kind of life that leaves scars, both physical and mental. You never needed confirmation to realize that. And there’s something about the way he hides behind his mask that makes you want to get past it, see who he really is.

But you’re not some love-struck fool, and this isn’t some sappy revelation. No, it’s more of an acknowledgment. A recognition of something you’ve known but never let yourself bother with until now. Because, truthfully speaking, you don’t have time for distractions. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.

And yet, here you are, watching him like a hawk, silently hoping he’ll look up at you the same way. But he doesn’t.

So, you keep your head down, keeping your distance like always, but in the back of your mind, the fact remains.

You like Ghost.

And that's not so bad.

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“Right, listen up,” Price starts, his voice steady and authoritative. “HQ managed to pull something useful from that drive we retrieved in Istanbul. Turns out, we’ve got a lead on one of Aegis’s high-ranking operators, someone who could lead us to the top brass.”

He pauses, his eyes sweeping across the room. “There’s always one, isn’t there? One high lackey in these secretive organizations who gets too lax. Thinks they’re untouchable, starts cutting corners, leaving traces. It’s a pattern as old as time—and lucky for us, they’ve made themselves our best chance to tear this operation wide open.”

Price leans on the table, his tone sharpening. “This is our window, but it’s not wide. We get in, we hit fast, and we make sure this bastard talks. Whatever they know, we need it. Aegis has been untouchable for too long, and I don’t plan on letting this opportunity slip through our fingers.”

You glance around, seeing the same looks of anticipation from the rest of the team. A lead—finally, something concrete.

“The problem is, this operation’s gotta go through channels. We’ll need clearance, assets… the works,” Price continues, his tone a little grimmer. “That means we’re waiting until HQ gives us the green light. Could take weeks. But sitting around isn’t an option.”

He pauses, scanning each of you. “So, until then, we’ll keep busy with some local missions. Nothing too complex, but I don’t want anyone getting rusty while we’re on standby.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table, but you feel a pang in your chest. You’d been focused on the Aegis mission from the start, never really thinking about anything outside of that. Now that they’re talking about ‘local missions,’ you can’t help but feel… separate, like the outsider you originally were. No one mentioned your role beyond helping with the Aegis case. After all, you’re still just a hired hand—a merc brought in for a single purpose.

Ghost is focused on Price, his posture tense as ever, while Gaz and Soap exchange a knowing glance. You’re about to quietly excuse yourself, assuming you’ll sit this out when Price’s gaze settles on you.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?” Price’s tone is sharp, but there’s something almost amused in his expression.

“I just… thought I’d step back,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “I’m not a soldier. I’m just here for the Aegis lead, remember?”

Soap rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Rubbish. You’re with us now, aye? Doesn’t matter if it’s Aegis or not.”

“Didn’t realize we were so quick to get rid of you,” Gaz chimes in, a smirk playing on his lips.

Ghost, too, narrows his eyes at you, though his expression is unreadable.

You blink, glancing between them, your stomach flipping in a strange mix of relief and disbelief. You’d prepared yourself to step back, to be the outsider again, but now… it feels like they’re giving you something more.

“Alright,” you finally say, unable to hide the slight smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Guess I’ll stick around, then.”

The murmur of approval that follows feels oddly comforting. You might still be a mercenary, not fully one of them, but in this moment, it feels like you’re finally part of something more.

“Here’s what we’ve got,” Price begins, laying a folder on the table. “A series of thefts from a military supply depot in Manchester. The MoD’s breathing down our necks to sort it out.”

“Thieves?” Soap grins, leaning back in his chair. “Aye, Captain, do we bring tea and biscuits too? Sounds like a right thrilling job.”

Price’s glare silences him. “Could be a gang. Could be a test run for something bigger. Either way, we’re not taking chances. Ghost, you and her go in first for recon. Soap and Gaz, you’ll back them up if things heat up.”

“Bring them in quiet, then?” Ghost asks, arms crossed.

“Quiet’s the goal. Fireworks if they bring the match,” Price replies.

You raise an eyebrow, unable to resist. “So, am I here to fill a quota, or are we pretending I have a role in this?”

Soap chuckles, but Ghost’s gaze cuts to you, sharp as a blade. “Your role is to follow orders. Don’t muck it up.”

Before you can retort, Price ends the briefing. “Gear up. We move in ten.”

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The depot is dark and quiet, rows of warehouses illuminated by dim, flickering streetlights. A faint breeze carries the metallic scent of the train tracks nearby. Ghost moves ahead of you, a shadow among shadows, his movements deliberate and controlled.

“Nothing yet,” you whisper into comms, your voice low but steady.

“Keep your eyes open,” Ghost replies, scanning the area with unnerving precision.

As the minutes drag on with no signs of life, your patience thins. “Riveting stuff,” you mutter, sarcasm lacing your tone.

“Keep quiet.”

“Afraid I’ll spook the crates?”

His silence is almost worse than a retort, but you catch the faintest exhale, like he’s suppressing a smirk.

Then movement catches your eye—a shadow slipping between crates near the far end of the depot. Your instincts kick in, adrenaline spiking.

“Got something,” you whisper, pointing toward the figure.

Ghost’s voice stiffens. “Stay there,” he orders, already moving.

You scoff, your pulse pounding in your ears. Stay? That's not what you are trained to do. Flanking around the opposite side, you keep low, your steps silent on the gravel.

The shadows ahead resolve into two figures: one with a crowbar prying open a crate, the other keeping watch.

The crowbar wielder spots you first. “Oi!” he shouts, raising the tool to strike.

You duck, the swing whistling past your head, and drive your shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling. Before he can recover, your knife is at his throat, and you shove him hard against the crate.

The shout has drawn others. Lights flicker on, illuminating more figures emerging from the shadows.

“Shit,” you mutter, already ducking for cover as gunfire erupts.

“What the fuck did you do?” Ghost’s voice growls through comms, furious.

“I improvised!” you shout back, squeezing off shots to keep the advancing figures at bay.

“By fuckin’ everything up?” His tone is venomous, but there’s no time to argue.

Soap and Gaz burst onto the scene, their arrival a storm of gunfire and shouted orders. The quiet op spirals into chaos: bullets ricochet off steel crates, shouts echo through the depot, and the thieves scatter like rats.

One lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, twist his arm, and drive him to the ground with a sharp knee to his stomach. Ghost appears out of nowhere, finishing the job with a brutal kick that leaves the man unconscious.

The firefight ends as abruptly as it began. The depot is secure, the thieves restrained and lined up like wayward schoolboys under Price’s watchful eye. But the air is thick with tension, and Ghost storms toward you, his fury palpable.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps, his voice low but deadly.

You open your mouth to explain, but his eyes—dark with frustration—stop you before you can speak.

“You disobeyed a direct order, endangered the op, and nearly got yourself killed. That’s your idea of handling it?”

You open your mouth again, but this time, the words don’t come. The truth hits you like a freight train. It’s not about the mission. It’s not about the team. It’s about you. You’ve always operated alone. For ten years, it’s been nothing but you—no backup, no team, no one to rely on but yourself. You’ve learned to trust no one, to act quickly, decisively, because there’s no one else who’s going to cover your back. You’re a mercenary by trade, a lone wolf.

But this—this isn’t that. This is a team. And you’re still learning how to fit into it. You’ve tried, god, you’ve tried. You’ve been making an effort to follow orders, to listen, to work alongside them, but it’s never been your way. Never has been, and it’s not as easy as just switching off your instincts. You’re still holding on to that lone mentality, still thinking like you’re the only one in control, like you’re the only one who matters.

Ghost’s words hit harder than they should. “You’re reckless. Dangerous. You don’t belong here.” His voice dips lower, sharper. “Having you with us is a mistake.”

The sting of those words reverberates deep within you. You know he’s right. You are reckless. You broke the plan, you jumped in too fast, and now the mission’s been compromised because you couldn’t hold back. Because you couldn’t trust them. Trust anyone.

"Ghost, that's enough." Price steps in, his voice firm, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. Ghost’s anger is there, thick and bitter, and you can’t shake the weight of his words. The worst part is that they’re true.

You didn’t belong to this team. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You stand there, your chest tight, trying to process his words. Part of you wants to explain, to defend yourself, but the other part—the part that’s tired of being on the outside—wonders if he’s right.

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The ride back to HQ is suffocating. The armored van rumbles along the quiet roads, but the silence inside is deafening. No one speaks. Soap sits with his arms crossed, his mouth set in an uncharacteristic frown. Gaz glances between you and Ghost occasionally, his expression unreadable. And Ghost—he doesn’t even look your way, his body stiff as he stares at some indeterminate spot on the wall.

You keep your gaze fixed on your lap, your knuckles pale from gripping your knees. The tension coils around you like a vice, tighter with every passing minute. Price’s rare silence makes it worse, his disappointment palpable even without words.

When the van finally pulls into HQ, you are the first to move. No one stops you.

You barely register walking through the base, your boots heavy against the tile floors. The whispers from the other soldiers, the curious glances—they barely scratch the surface of your awareness. You reach your quarters in a haze, shutting the door behind you with a loud click.

The shower is the first thing you need. Stripping off your gear and bloodstained clothes, you step under the scalding water, letting it cascade over your skin. The grime and sweat of the mission melt away, but it does nothing for the knot in your chest.

You scrub harder, like you can wash away the words Ghost spat at you.

“You don’t belong here.”

The lump in your throat grows heavier, and before you can stop it, the tears come. Silent at first, slipping down your face and mingling with the water. But then the weight of it all crashes over you—his anger, the guilt, the humiliation. The sobs wrack your chest, harsh and unrelenting.

You press your hands to your face, muffling the sound.

The mission went wrong. You know that. You broke formation, ignored orders—again. But the way Ghost spoke to you, the venom in his voice, made it so much worse. Like you are a liability, something to be discarded.

You sink to the floor of the shower, the water pounding against your back as you bury your face in your hands.

You hate this. Hate how his words linger in your head, hate how they make you doubt yourself.

You aren’t a rookie. You’ve been a mercenary for over a decade. But this is different. Being part of their team—fitting into their system—it isn’t something you’ve ever had to do before. And tonight proves you don’t know how.

By the time the tears stop, your skin is red from the heat of the water, and the room is filled with thick steam. You turn off the shower and sit there for a moment, staring at the tiles.

Eventually, you force yourself to move. Drying off, you slip into comfortable clothes and sit on the edge of your bed. The exhaustion is bone-deep, but sleep feels impossible.

The words replay in your mind. “You don’t belong here.”

And the worst part is, you aren’t sure if he’s wrong.

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Getting off base for the night isn’t as straightforward as walking out the gates. It never is. You spend the better part of the night navigating the layers of protocol required for someone in your position. Hired hands aren’t exactly afforded the same privileges as the soldiers stationed here.

First comes the request—a formal nod to the chain of command. You keep it simple: a few hours in town to unwind, a brief break from the monotony. It isn’t a lie, but you know better than to overshare. They don’t need your life story, just a reason they can’t argue with.

Next is the approval process. Someone with a clipboard, a sharp eye, and just enough authority to make you wait longer than necessary finally hands over a clearance slip. It’s flimsy, just a card with your name, a stamp of approval, and the time you need to be back, but it’s freedom—conditional as it may be.

At the gate, the guards barely look at you as they check the slip, scan your ID, and wave you through. Their disinterest is palpable, an unspoken understanding that you’re no longer their responsibility once you step outside.

The heavy gate creaks open, and the air beyond feels different. Lighter, less stifling, with the faint promise of anonymity in the night ahead. You climb into the waiting cab, settling into the seat as the base lights fade behind you. For the first time in weeks, you feel untethered, even if only for a few hours.

The driver glances at you in the rearview mirror. “Heading out for a quiet drink?”

“Something like that,” you murmur, your voice even.

The cab rocks gently as it takes the turns, the faint hum of the radio filling the silence. You keep your eyes on the window, watching the rolling countryside give way to the first signs of town life—rows of small buildings glowing under streetlights, signs of a world that doesn’t feel burdened by the weight of missions gone wrong or words that cut deep.

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The club comes into view, its neon lights flickering in an erratic but inviting rhythm. The bass thumps faintly in the night air, reverberating through the pavement as you step out of the cab. The loose sweater hangs over your frame, the sleeves just slightly too long, and the worn sneakers you slipped on feel out of place among the sharp heels and sleek outfits of the gathering crowd. But you don’t care. Tonight isn’t about fitting in—it’s about forgetting.

The bouncer eyes you up and down, his expression unreadable as he takes in your attire—clothes that scream out of place in the sea of glittering dresses and sharp suits around you. For a moment, you brace yourself for the inevitable shake of his head, but instead, he jerks a thumb toward the door, a flicker of something like amusement crossing his face. Maybe it’s the weariness in your eyes or the way you hold yourself, like you’ve seen enough to not care what anyone thinks. Whatever it is, he doesn’t stop you. “Go on,” he mutters, barely sparing you a second glance. The cacophony of music and voices hits you in a rush. The heavy beats, the swirl of lights, the haze of motion—it’s everything you need to drown out the thoughts still clawing at the back of your mind.

At the bar, you order something strong and down it quickly, the burn trailing down your throat a welcome distraction. The familiar motions of drinking, of sitting at a bar surrounded by strangers, almost make you feel normal. Almost.

The crowd shifts and sways to the music, bodies moving in chaotic synchrony, a rhythm dictated by the pulsing bass. You stay at the edges, nursing your second drink, your loose sweater brushing against your arms like a phantom reminder of the gear you shed.

You feel anonymous here, and maybe that’s the point. No missions, no formations, no Ghost’s livid words playing on repeat. Just the music, the heat of the room, and the simple, fleeting luxury of being nobody in a sea of strangers.

For a moment, you wonder if this will work—if the noise and chaos can smother everything else. You don’t feel like a mercenary tonight. You don’t feel like someone trained to kill. You feel like a woman who needs to disappear for a few hours, to let the beat carry her someplace else.

The glass is cool in your hand, condensation dripping onto the bar as you swirl the remnants of your drink, lost in the haze of the pulsing music. You don’t notice the stranger until he’s right beside you, leaning casually on the bar.

“Rough night?” His voice cuts through the noise, smooth and self-assured.

You glance up, taking in the sharp jawline, the easy smile, and the confidence that radiates from him. He looks like he belongs here—perfectly at ease in the swirl of lights and music, his shirt just tight enough to hint at a well-built frame.

“Something like that,” you reply, your tone light but guarded.

His grin widens, and he motions to the bartender. “Another for her, on me. Whatever she’s having.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Generous of you.”

“Let’s call it an investment,” he says, leaning in just slightly. His cologne is subtle, a faint mix of something woodsy and clean. “Trying to see if I can make you smile.”

You can’t help the small twitch of your lips, though you mask it with a sip of your freshly placed drink. “I don’t think I’m your type.”

He tilts his head, his gaze warm and teasing. “Maybe you’re exactly my type.” The words should sound cheap, but something about his delivery makes them feel playful instead.

The glass feels heavier in your hand as his words sink in, and you glance down at yourself—oversized sweater swallowing your frame, hair thrown haphazardly, and sneakers peeking out from beneath your jeans. You’re a far cry from the sleek, confident crowd that moves around the club, their sequins and sharp tailoring catching the strobe lights like polished glass.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “I doubt that,” you say, the edge in your voice barely concealed. “Look at me. I don’t exactly scream ‘fun night out.’”

He doesn’t miss a beat, his expression softening but still holding that spark of charm. “You think I care about what you’re wearing? Trust me, I’ve seen enough people dressed to the nines with nothing going on behind the eyes. You? I don’t think you realize how much you stand out.”

The comment makes your stomach twist—not with discomfort, but something lighter, warmer. You take another sip of your drink to hide your reaction, but his gaze stays on you, steady and sure, like he’s waiting for you to actually believe him.

You clear your throat, trying to brush it off. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or a really polite way to say I don’t fit in here.”

“It’s a compliment,” he says firmly, leaning closer. “And for the record, you’re a breath of fresh air in a place like this.”

For the first time in the evening, you feel the tension in your shoulders ease just slightly, his words carving a sliver of space in the wall you’ve built around yourself. Still, a small voice in the back of your head whispers disbelief, but you shove it aside—just for tonight.

“Alright,” you say finally, setting your drink down. “Show me what you’ve got.”

He extends a hand, palm up, an invitation that makes you hesitate for just a second. Then you slip your hand into his, letting him guide you to the dance floor.

The music envelops you, a bass-heavy track with a rhythm impossible to ignore. The crowd presses in around you, a blur of bodies and heat, but he keeps a respectful distance at first, moving in time with you. He’s good at this—confident without being overbearing, his movements fluid and easy.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, raising your voice over the music.

“Once or twice,” he admits, flashing a grin. “You’re not bad yourself.”

You snort lightly. “Don’t get used to it. I don’t dance often.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He spins you suddenly, his hand firm but gentle on your waist as he pulls you back.

The motion catches you off guard, but you go with it, the tension of the last few days starting to dissolve in the rhythm and the sheer absurdity of the moment. Here, under the lights, surrounded by strangers, you feel a little less weighed down, a little more like someone who can laugh at a flirtatious stranger and just enjoy the moment.

The bass thumps through your body, drowning out your thoughts. The weight in your chest hasn’t fully lifted—it lingers there, a reminder of the earlier mess—but the alcohol in your veins, the stranger’s hands gently brushing your waist as he dances behind you, and the sheer energy of the crowd help blur the edges of the pain. For a moment, you let yourself get lost in it.

His movements mirror yours, easy and fluid, and when you glance over your shoulder, his attention is locked solely on you. There’s no pretense, no guessing; he’s fully engrossed, his smile wide and genuine. It’s almost disarming, that kind of focus, but it also makes you feel… present.

You raise the drink in your hand to your lips, taking a slow sip, and catch his amused glance. He leans down just enough for you to hear him over the music. “Not bad, huh?”

You smirk. “I’ve seen better.”

He laughs, the sound melting into the rhythm of the song. “Liar,” he teases, his hands brushing your hips in time with the beat, keeping just the right amount of distance to make it playful.

The song shifts to something slower but heavier, the lights dimming, and the crowd around you sways together like a single entity. You hesitate, your instinct to step away clashing with the alcohol-fueled buzz in your head. Instead, you turn to face him, your drink now just a forgotten weight in your hand.

His eyes scan your face, a flicker of curiosity and something warmer behind his easy smile. He steps closer, his movements deliberate but not invasive, giving you space to pull away if you want. You don’t.

“You know,” he says, his voice low enough to cut through the music, “I don’t usually get this lucky.”

“Lucky how?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, though you’re already sure of the answer.

“Meeting someone like you,” he says simply, his tone sincere.

It’s a line—probably one he’s used before—but in the haze of the club, it feels… nice. You tilt your head, studying him. The lights strobe, casting his features in flashes of blue and red, and for a second, you let yourself relax into the idea that this is all there is. Just a night, just a moment.

He leans in slightly, and you can feel the shift in the air between you. His hand brushes your arm, and his voice drops even lower. “Can I…?”

You don’t answer immediately, your mind catching up with what’s happening. Then, slowly, he leans closer, his lips brushing yours with tentative softness.

It’s fleeting—a kiss that doesn’t demand anything, just a gentle question. And for a heartbeat, you let yourself lean into it, letting the world outside the club disappear completely.

The kiss deepens for just a moment, the stranger’s hands resting lightly on your hips, when suddenly, a sharp tug yanks you backward. You stumble, breaking away from the man, and find yourself face-to-face with Ghost.

He stands rigid, his imposing figure towering over both you and the stranger, his eyes blazing behind the mask. Even in the dim lighting of the club, the tension rolling off him is palpable.

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand, your heart racing—not from the kiss, but from the sheer intensity of Ghost’s presence.

“Saving you from making a mistake,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. He turns his attention to the stranger, who looks bewildered and more than a little intimidated. “Back off.”

The guy raises his hands in mock surrender, his earlier charm replaced by wariness. “Hey, I didn’t know she was taken. My bad.”

“I’m not—” you start, but Ghost steps forward, his stance shifting like he’s ready for a fight.

The guy takes a step back, looking between the two of you. “Look, man, she’s all yours. I wasn’t trying to start anything.”

“Ghost!” you snap, grabbing his arm to stop him. “He’s a civilian. You can’t just—”

Ghost’s gaze snaps to you, the fire in his eyes still smoldering. “A civilian,” he repeats, his tone sharp with disbelief.

“What is wrong with you?” you shoot back, your own anger flaring now.

He doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw clenching beneath the mask. His grip on your arm loosens slightly, but he doesn’t step away. “You don’t know what kind of people come to places like this,” he mutters, his tone quieter but no less heated.

“I can handle myself,” you say firmly, pulling your arm free from his grasp.

“Clearly,” he bites out, his eyes flicking to the stranger, who wisely starts edging away.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Ghost, let it go. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ghost’s shoulders stiffen briefly, but after a moment, he exhales sharply, the tension in his body easing just slightly. He steps closer, his voice low and firm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you snap, but he doesn’t give you a choice. His hand closes around your wrist—not painfully, but with enough strength to make it clear he isn’t backing down.

“Ghost, I mean it—”

“Don’t make me carry you out,” he warns, his voice calm but laced with steel. His grip tightens just enough to guide you firmly toward the exit.

Fuming, you let yourself be dragged outside, too aware of the growing number of eyes on you in the club. Once outside, the cool night air hits your flushed skin, but it does little to cool your temper.

“Get in the car,” Ghost orders, nodding toward a black vehicle parked by the curb.

“You can’t just—”

“Get. In. The car,” he repeats, his tone brooking no argument.

Angrily, you yank your arm out of his grip and climb in, slamming the door behind you. Ghost rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat, the air inside thick with unspoken tension.

As he pulls away from the curb, you whirl on him. “Why the hell were you following me? I got clearance. I’m not under your leash anymore.”

“I wasn’t following you,” he retorts, his tone sharp. “I was making sure you didn’t get yourself killed.”

“Bullshit,” you snap. “I’ve been on my own plenty of times before, and you never pulled this crap.”

“This isn’t the same,” he growls, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “You’re reckless, and you don’t think about what’s waiting around the corner. A place like that? You’re asking for trouble.”

“I’m asking for a night off,” you counter, your voice rising. “You don’t get to decide where I go or who I talk to anymore.”

His jaw tightens beneath the mask, but he says nothing.

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The drive is silent, tension filling the car like a thick fog. Ghost grips the wheel tightly, his knuckles white under his gloves. You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, your thoughts swirling with confusion and lingering frustration. The alcohol in your system is dulling your ability to piece things together, but one thing is clear—he's angry.

The car finally slows as he pulls into an empty park, dimly lit by streetlights and eerily quiet. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, his hands resting on the wheel, before turning to you with a sharp look.

“Get out,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said, get out of the car.”

His tone sends a shiver through you, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the look in his eyes is unyielding, so you push open the door and step out into the crisp night air. Ghost follows, his boots crunching against the gravel as he comes around to face you.

“Why do you always cause trouble?” he demands, his voice low but biting.

The question hits you like a slap, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. “Trouble?” you repeat, your voice shaking. “You dragged me out here just to call me trouble?”

“You don’t think!” he snaps, his frustration boiling over. “You act on impulse, you break formation, and you put yourself—and everyone else—at risk. What the hell is wrong with you?”

His words are like a punch to the gut, and before you can stop yourself, the dam inside you bursts. “Have you already forgotten what you said to me?” Your voice trembles, rising with each word. “That having me around is a mistake? That the idea of me is a mistake?”

His mouth opens slightly as if to respond, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You don’t think I’m trying?” you cry out, the alcohol making your emotions impossible to suppress. “I’ve been a merc for ten years, Ghost. Ten years of flying solo, doing things my way. You think I can just switch that off and magically fit into your team overnight?”

He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of guilt in his eyes is undeniable.

“I’ve been trying,” you continue, your voice breaking now. “I really have, but it’s hard. And you—you make it even harder. You’re so quick to throw me away, like I’m nothing. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”

Your voice cracks, and before you know it, tears spill over, your shoulders trembling as you struggle to hold yourself together. You hate this—hate how vulnerable you are right now, hate how much his words got to you.

Ghost takes a step closer, his towering frame softening as he reaches out. His gloved hands cup your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streak your cheeks.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice stripped of its usual edge. “Just… stop.”

You meet his gaze, your breath hitching at the look in his eyes—raw, conflicted, and entirely unguarded.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry, and I... I was scared.”

“Scared?” you repeat, your voice shaking.

He nods, his hands still cradling your face. “You don’t get it, do you? Watching you throw yourself into danger like that, without a second thought—it messes with me. The thought of you getting hurt…” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “It fucks me up inside.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, the raw honesty in them cutting through the haze of your emotions.

“I don’t know how to deal with it,” he admits, his thumbs brushing over your tears in a gesture so tender it makes your heart ache. “But I know I’ve been taking it out on you, and I’m sorry for that. You didn’t deserve it.”

For a moment, the two of you stand there, the weight of his words settling between you. The anger, the hurt, the confusion—it all feels distant now, overshadowed by the quiet sincerity in his voice and the steady warmth of his hands.

You stand there, the weight of everything crashing down on you, and the question rises in your chest, burning with a quiet intensity. The words spill out before you can stop them. “If you care so much about me, then why would you say things that hurt me like that? Why throw all that shit at me, if you actually care?”

Ghost’s gaze drops to the ground, his jaw tightening. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, as though he’s struggling with the weight of his own words. His hands remain on your face, cupping your cheeks firmly, as though grounding himself in you. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you, despite the tension building between you.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, low and rough. “You think I want to hurt you?”

“No,” you reply quickly, “but you sure know how to do it.”

His eyes flicker to yours before he looks away again, the frustration evident in his every movement. “I don’t know how to show I care, alright? I’ve never been good at it.”

You blink at him, the confusion deepening. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, his thumb brushing over the skin of your cheek, almost absentmindedly, as though he’s not aware of how intimate the gesture is.

“You’re right. I don't know how to treat people the right way. And that’s been a problem for years.” He pauses, his eyes briefly meeting yours before they drop to the ground again. “I’m not good at expressing myself either. It’s been like that for a long time. I don’t know how to show I care about certain people. Especially you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, the weight of his words crashing into you. “So, all this time… it’s been about you not knowing how to… show you care?”

He nods, meeting your eyes once more, soft but unyielding. “Yeah. I’m puzzled, okay? I’ve never met anyone like you. Someone who makes me care this much and still frustrates the hell out of me. It messes with my head. And I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You take a deep breath, your chest tight, processing everything. “So it’s not just about the team, then? It’s about me?”

His eyes meet yours again, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. “Yeah. You get under my skin, and I don’t know how to handle it. I hate it, but I can’t stop it. And that’s what fucks me up.”

You try to process his words, still feeling the sting of the anger, but you can see the regret and vulnerability in his eyes. You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I hate how it messes with me, how you’re different from the others. And that pisses me off, because I can’t fucking fix it.” His hands tense slightly on your face, as if trying to hold onto the moment. “I don’t know what to do, but I’m trying. I am.”

Your heart beats faster, the weight of everything crashing down on you. You swallow hard, your voice trembling as you look at him. “You don’t have to fix anything, Ghost. Just… don’t hurt me.”

His grip softens, and for a moment, you see him at a loss for words. He moves his thumb over your cheek again, almost as though he’s apologizing without saying it. Then, he looks at you, his gaze steady. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words carrying weight. “I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—bloody hell, I'm lost when it comes to you.”

You nod, the emotions still swirling inside you. “I don’t need you to have it figured out right now. Just don’t…”

“I won’t,” he promises, his voice barely a whisper, but firm. “I won’t hurt you again.”

The air between you thickens, the silence heavy with everything that’s been left unsaid. You’re still reeling from the intensity of the moment, the weight of Ghost’s presence and everything unspoken between you. His gloved hands are still holding your face, steady and grounding, but his gaze shifts, dark and unreadable, as though he’s making a decision in real time.

You feel it before he moves, the tension crackling like a live wire, and then, with deliberate slowness, he lifts his own mask. It’s only to his nose, just high enough to expose his lips. The action feels monumental, the vulnerability of it making your breath hitch.

The sight of him—the strong curve of his mouth, the way his breath brushes against your skin—is startling, disarming. And before you can say anything, before you can even think, he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, unrelenting, full of frustration and desire that’s been simmering under the surface for too long. It’s not careful or measured—it’s raw, messy, and unapologetic. Like he’s trying to erase the memory of the stranger’s hands on you, of that kiss you shared, and replace it with this. With him.

His lips move against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak, his hands tightening slightly against your face as though he can’t bear the thought of letting go. You gasp into the kiss, your hands instinctively clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it, pulling you closer, his body pressing firmly against yours.

There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing, only the overwhelming need to claim you, to make it clear that this is where you belong. It’s intense, searing, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—his lips, his touch, the sheer force of his presence.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to catch his breath, his lips hovering over yours. Both of you are gasping for air, the space between you charged with the kind of energy that leaves you dizzy.

The sight of him like this—vulnerable and exposed—is almost too much to process.

“I followed you back there,” he admits, his voice rough but steady, “to apologize. For what I said. I thought maybe—maybe if I just said I was sorry, you’d—” His words falter for a moment before he pushes forward. “But then I saw him. That bastard at the bar, leaning too close, looking at you like—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tight as he fights for control.

“I hated it,” he whispers, voice rough and barely audible over the pounding of your heart. His forehead presses lightly against yours, and you can feel the tremor in his breath. “Seeing him with you. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to destroy everything.”

His words hit you like a punch, raw and unfiltered, leaving no room for doubt. Your chest tightens as you try to make sense of it, of him, of everything that’s just happened.

“I wanted it to be me,” Ghost mutters, his lips brushing yours again as he speaks. His voice is quieter now, but no less intense, each word laced with meaning. “It should’ve been me.”

You’re left breathless, stunned into silence, your heart pounding as his words settle into your bones. The weight of what he’s said, what he’s done, lingers between you, unshakable and impossible to ignore.

The world around you feels like it’s stopped moving, as if everything has frozen, leaving only you and Ghost, this moment, hanging in suspended time. His lips are still gently hovering over yours, but the kiss he just gave you lingers like fire across your skin, burning away any remnants of the confusion that was there before. His touch, his presence—it's so different from that stranger’s brief, fleeting kiss at the club. This? This feels real. This feels right.

Your head is spinning, heart hammering, trying to make sense of what’s happening. It’s like the fog is lifting and you can finally see the clarity you’ve been ignoring. The space between you and Ghost feels like it’s always been meant to be filled, like there’s no question about it.

With a breathless laugh, you close the small distance between you two and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you as you finally let yourself feel the rush of everything you’ve been holding back. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, as if trying to show him what’s been building inside you.

When you pull back just enough to speak, your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s laced with certainty. “It’ll be you,” you say, your hands resting against his chest, your eyes locking with his. “From now on, it’ll be you.”

Ghost's eyes ignite with relief, his grip on you tightening as if he's been starved of your consent. Crushing his mouth to yours, he kisses you fiercely, devouring every inch of your lips. His tongue claims your mouth, tangling with yours in a wild dance of passion that mirrors the unspoken hunger you both share. His touch becomes more demanding, yet gentle, sending waves of heat crashing through your body. This raw, carnal connection eclipses everything else—the world, the mission, the tangled past—reducing it all to insignificance compared to the burning fire consuming you both.

You pull back slowly, your lips still tingling, the world around you sharpening back into focus. His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling beneath your fingers as his gaze locks onto yours, raw and intense. The silence stretches, but it’s no longer uncomfortable—it’s charged, full of implicit understanding.

“I’m scared,” you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty. “Everything’s different now.”

He doesn’t look away, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that’s almost too much. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice a low growl. “Hell, I’m terrified.”

But the fear isn’t something to avoid. It makes everything feel real, exhilarating, like a dare. You both know that whatever this is, it’s a risk worth taking. No safety nets, no guarantees. Just the thrill of diving in, together.

And as his lips find yours again, the fear becomes fuel—the kind of fear that pushes you forward, deeper into the unknown, but this time, you know you’ll face it side by side.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ -

Author's Note: definitely a rushed chapter (sorry about that, work’s been killing me), but things are about to get steamy after this. :^)