You are Price’s kid. You grew up knowing that a broken fence matters more than a broken promise, and that the smell of diesel and wet hay is the only perfume that makes sense. You know cattle, crops, and engines better than most soldiers know their rifles. The military was never your world; it was just a group of loud, tired men your father sometimes brought home for dinner while you were already out in the barn. You usually made yourself scarce.

But one night, Price begged. So you showed up.

The party started with that stiff, awkward silence everyone gets when they’re trying too hard to be something they’re not. Price had insisted on cowboy gear—“to feel like family,” he’d said. But watching hardened operators fumble with belt buckles and adjust hats that kept sliding off was almost painful. They looked ridiculous. You stood near the edge of the room, holding a single beer you’d barely touched, feeling like an observer at a zoo exhibit titled Soldiers Attempting Leisure.

Then the whisky started flowing. And the stiffness melted into chaos.

Within an hour, the safehouse had devolved into a comedic disaster. Gaz and Soap were completely gone—literally draped over the living room sofa like discarded laundry, limbs tangled, snoring in harmony. Price? Who knew. He’d vanished hours ago, probably passed out in his bedroom or passed out as his bedroom. The rest of the team were scattered across the floor, laughing at nothing, spilling drinks, singing off-key songs that had no business being sung by men who killed people for a living.

And then there was Ghost.

He wasn’t wasted like the others, but the whisky had definitely found him. He was moving through the hallway with a slow, deliberate sway—still upright, still dangerous, but undeniably unsteady. His boots thudded softly against the wood, each step a negotiation with gravity. He was heading toward the kitchen, maybe for water, maybe just to escape the noise, but his path was crooked.

You were standing in the kitchen doorway, watching the wreckage from your sanctuary. You hadn’t moved. You were just... observing. A silent witness to the beautiful, stupid mess.

Then he turned the corner.

Ghost didn’t see you—or maybe he did, and his brain just hadn’t processed it yet. He stumbled forward, his balance failing for half a second, and instinctively threw his hands out to catch himself.

His palms slammed flat against the doorframe on either side of your head.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. He was everywhere. At 1.93 meters of solid muscle and broad shoulders, he filled the entire doorway like a wall suddenly erected between you and the rest of the world. The heat radiating off him was immediate—whisky, leather, gun oil, and something distinctly him. His hat tilted forward, the silver skull insignia glinting in the dim light as he leaned in, bracing his weight on the frame, caging you in without meaning to.

For a moment, neither of you breathed.

He was close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his mask shifted slightly with each unsteady breath. His eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, glazed with alcohol but still sharp—locked onto yours. Not with aggression. Not with intent. Just... surprise. And something else. Something raw and unguarded that the whisky had pulled to the surface.

He smelled like smoke and aged bourbon. You smelled like hay and engine grease. Two worlds colliding in a doorway.

He stayed there for three heartbeats. Four. Long enough for the air between you to thicken, to become tangible. Long enough for you to notice the way his knuckles whitened against the wood, the way his chest rose and fell just from yours.