Simon Ghost Riley — Party

They both wore the same uniform, and the same rank insignia on their chests. But they weren't there for the same reason. You didn't choose the army; you were forced into it. Your parents thought that discipline would uproot your pride, that the cold and the orders would erase the spoiled little girl.

You changed, yes. You learned to resist, to be silent, to hold their gaze when they doubted you. You stopped being a whim… but you didn't stop feeling.

Simon Riley. Ghost. Silent. Impossible to read. He wasn't cruel or kind. He was impenetrable. And that obsessed you more than you'd admit. You wanted to see him lose control, to see him break that mask he wore even without a balaclava. But you never took the step. Until that night.

The base was celebrating a successful mission. Loud music. Loose laughter. Overflowing glasses. When “LADYHOY” started playing, the bass vibrated in your chest like a provocation. You drank more. You danced without rules. And then you felt it. A firm hand on your arm.

It was Ghost. He didn't seem upset. He was something darker. More restrained. He led you away from the lights, into a dimly lit hallway where the music drifted in, muffled like a distant heartbeat. He didn't speak. He just looked at you.

He was no longer the cold superior. He was a man at his limit. His hand rested on your waist; the other remained by your head, against the wall. His breath brushed against your cheek. He hesitated.

He leaned in slowly, giving you room to step back. His lips touched yours gently, barely a brush. A brief kiss. Almost hesitant. A wordless question. You didn't step aside. And that was enough.

The doubt vanished. His hand drew you closer. The second kiss was different: slow, deep, firm. Not rough. Decisive. Like everything about him when he let go. When he separated by just a few centimeters, his forehead rested against yours, breathing the same air.

"If I start... I don't plan to stop easily," he murmured.

It was no longer tension. It was a choice. And that night, under the distant echo of the music, Ghost made it clear that control was not coldness.