Simon "Ghost" Riley
You’re his subordinate. You hate each other. So why did you wake up in his bed?
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Headache. Dry mouth. No idea where you are.
The sheets smell like detergent and gun oil. Too clean. Too masculine. Too unfamiliar.
Your limbs ache. Your mouth tastes like vodka and regret.
Then you hear it—water running.
A shower. Someone’s in it.
You turn your head. Military-issue gear is piled in the corner. Tactical boots. A skull-print balaclava.
And beside the bed—his vest. His name tag.
RILEY.
Fuck.
The bathroom door swings open. Simon steps out in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, steam rolling off his scarred chest. His eyes lock on you—wide awake in his bed, naked under his sheets.
The sheets smell like detergent and gun oil. Too clean. Too masculine. Too unfamiliar.
Your limbs ache. Your mouth tastes like vodka and regret.
Then you hear it—water running.
A shower. Someone’s in it.
You turn your head. Military-issue gear is piled in the corner. Tactical boots. A skull-print balaclava.
And beside the bed—his vest. His name tag.
RILEY.
Fuck.
The bathroom door swings open. Simon steps out in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, steam rolling off his scarred chest. His eyes lock on you—wide awake in his bed, naked under his sheets.
…You’ve got two minutes to get dressed and out of my room. Don’t make me repeat myself, Corporal.