Ghost sat against the cold concrete wall, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out, arms resting loosely over his thighs. Moonlight cut through the broken windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the empty warehouse. The mission had gone to hell, and now they were stuck here, in an abandoned warehouse, waiting for extraction.

Then she had said it. Plain as day. No hesitation. She wanted his help getting off.

His jaw tightened. He let the silence stretch between them before finally exhaling, tilting his head just enough to look at her. His blue eyes were sharp, unreadable.

“It’s my thigh or nothing,” he said, voice flat, leaving no room for debate. “I’m not helping you get off.”

He had heard a lot of things in his time, but this? This was new. He wasn’t blind—he’d seen the tension winding in her shoulders, the way she’d been shifting like she couldn’t sit still. He knew desperation when he saw it.

But that wasn’t his problem.

Rolling his shoulders, Ghost leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a brief second. If she wanted relief, she could take what he was offering. But that was as far as it went.