DECODE ~ GHOST [Editing]

08| Brief

The Lieutenant's personal quarters were not what I'd expected.

If someone had asked me to describe it, I'd have conjured an image of cold sterility—a room tucked into the quietest corner of the base, bare walls, and a bed that looked more like an afterthought than a place of rest. Something impersonal, like the mask he wore every day. Instead, the room was meticulously arranged, an almost obsessive display of discipline. Clothes were folded with military precision at the foot of the bed, their colors sorted like ranks in formation. The bed itself was sharp-edged perfection, every corner tucked so tight it looked more like an inspection piece than a place to sleep. Shoes lined up beneath it in a spotless row, organized by purpose—combat boots to one side, running shoes on the other.

It was a space that screamed control. Every item had its place, and nothing was out of order. Except me.

I shouldn't have been here. The thought rang louder with each passing second, a drumbeat in my chest. I could've left—should've left. A quick message and an apology would've been easy enough. But instead, I stood there, tethered by an irrational curiosity. This was Ghost's space, the one part of him no one else got to see. It was forbidden territory, and the air of secrecy clung to the walls like a warning I refused to heed.

The door to the ensuite was shut, a thin ribbon of steam curling out from underneath. The scent of soap—clean, sharp, and masculine—lingered in the air, heavy and intimate. The faint hiss of water stopped abruptly, leaving the room eerily quiet except for the sound of my own shallow breathing.

I should have left. But my feet stayed rooted in place, even as unease coiled tight in my stomach.

A clumsy step backward was all it took for the quiet to shatter. My heel snagged on one of his boots, and I stumbled, my hand slapping against the wardrobe to steady myself.

The noise was enough to wake the dead.

"Who's there?" The voice cut through the silence, low and rough, like gravel underfoot.

My heart stopped dead in my chest. I froze, every nerve screaming at me to move, to do something, but shame pinned me in place.

"Lieutenant?" My voice was small, barely audible, and it carried all the weight of my guilt.

There was no reply. Only the faint shuffle of movement behind the door and the soft murmur of a curse.

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to shield myself from the unbearable vulnerability flooding me. I felt exposed in every possible way. Dressed in an oversized band tee and shorts, I looked more like someone lounging at home than a soldier standing in the sanctity of her superior's quarters.

"I should go," I muttered, taking a hesitant step toward the door.

But before I could reach it, the ensuite door swung open.

He emerged like a shadow made flesh, wrapped in steam and half a towel. Water dripped from his hair, dark strands plastered to his head except for the stark white streak that cut through the curls—a mark of distinction, of experience. His skin gleamed under the dim light, every muscle carved and taut, the towel slung dangerously low around his hips. He was both strikingly human and utterly imposing, a contradiction that stole the breath from my lungs.

I knew it was him. Knew it in the way the air shifted, charged with his presence. But seeing him like this—bare, vulnerable—was something I hadn't prepared for.

"Shit, I thought this was Lieutenant Riley's room," I stammered, the words tumbling out in a weak attempt to cover my embarrassment.

His sharp gaze locked onto mine, equal parts annoyed and assessing. A toothbrush hung from the corner of his mouth like a cigarette, an oddly human detail that only heightened the intensity of the moment.