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Summary
That night, Ghost was in his quarters, cleaning his sidearm with methodical precision, when his phone buzzed. A text from Soap. The message was a garbled mess: [need u ghost somethings wrong plz] No punctuation, no clarity - just raw urgency. Ghost’s gut twisted. Soap wasn’t the type to cry wolf. He grabbed his balaclava, pulling it on out of habit, and headed for Soap’s quarters, his boots silent on the base’s concrete floors.
The hallway was dim, the hum of fluorescent lights barely audible. Soap’s door was at the end, and as Ghost approached, a scent hit him like a shockwave - sweet, heady, unmistakable. Omega in heat. His steps faltered. Every alpha instinct roared to life, his blood pounding in his ears. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. Soap was in trouble. That was the mission. Not whatever his body was screaming at him to do.
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The new sergeant, Soap MacTavish, has a flash-heat while on suppressants and needs his Lieutenant's help.