Chapter 37 #3
Rachel leaned against the doorframe and just watched. The way his body moved. The definition in his back and arms. The focus on his face. This was part of who he was, this discipline, this constant maintenance of the weapon his body had become.
He finished the set and dropped down, reaching for a towel from the bench. That's when he noticed her.
"Hey," he said, breathing hard. His chest rose and fell, the T-shirt clinging to his torso.
"Hey."
His eyes tracked over her, and something shifted in his expression. His gaze grew warmer, more focused. "How long you been standing there?"
"Long enough."
He moved toward her, still breathing hard from the workout. When he reached her, he braced one hand on the doorframe above her head, caging her in. She could smell the sweat on his skin, feel the heat radiating off him.
"Like what you see?" he asked, voice low and rough.
Her mouth went dry. Her pulse kicked up. "Maybe."
He leaned in, close enough that she could see a bead of sweat trailing down his neck. Close enough that his breath ghosted across her lips. "Just maybe?"
She reached up and ran her hand along his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath her palm, the dampness of his shirt, the rapid beat of his heart. "Definitely."
He kissed her. Hard and hungry, tasting like salt and need and something wild. She kissed him back, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer despite the sweat. Or maybe because of it. Because this was him unfiltered, raw, real.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing harder.
"I should shower," he said, but he didn't move.
"Yeah. You should."
But neither of them moved. They just stood there, his body caging hers against the doorframe, her hands on his shoulders, the garage smelling like concrete and sweat and the faint scent of motor oil.
Ghost's hand slid from the doorframe to her waist, fingers curling into her hip. "Come with me."
It wasn't a question. It was an invitation. A promise.
Rachel nodded.
He took her hand and led her back through the house to the bedroom, to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam started to rise, then turned back to her.
"You sure?" he asked, even though they'd done this before. Even though he already knew the answer.
"Yes."
He reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it up and over her head, then her shorts, unbuttoning them slowly, pushing them down her hips. Her bra came next, his fingers working the clasp with practiced ease. Her underwear last, sliding down her legs until she stepped out of them.
She stood bare in front of him, and his eyes moved over her. Not rushed. Just looking. Learning. Memorizing.
"You're so damn beautiful," he said quietly, and the way he said it made her believe him.
Then he stripped out of his workout clothes, the damp T-shirt, the athletic shorts, his boxer briefs. When he was bare, she let herself look too. The broad shoulders. The defined chest and abdomen. The scars she was starting to recognize. The hard length of him, already responding to her proximity.
He took her hand and led her into the shower.
The water was hot, almost too hot, but it felt good against her skin.
Steam filled the glass enclosure, making everything soft and hazy.
Ghost pulled her under the spray, his hands sliding into her hair, tilting her face up to his.
Water ran down between them, slicking their skin.
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper.
Like they had all the time in the world.
Rachel's hands explored his body, tracing the muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his back. She found scars and wondered about them, a puckered circle near his ribs, a long thin line across his shoulder blade. Each scar told its own story-moments he’d survived, battles he’d outlasted.
Ghost reached for the body wash and poured some into his palm, then his hands were on her, lathering soap across her shoulders, down her arms, along her sides, slow, deliberate. His touch was both gentle and possessive, like he was claiming every inch of her skin.
He washed her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked, down her stomach, her hips, then he knelt, and she felt his hands on her thighs, her calves, her feet. Worshipping, that was the word that came to mind. He was worshipping her body with his hands.
When he stood back up, water streaming down his face, she reached for the body wash. "My turn."
She washed him the same way. Slowly. Thoroughly.
Learning the landscape of his body, where he was ticklish (just below his ribs), where he was scarred (so many places), where he was sensitive (the hollow of his throat, the inside of his wrists).
She felt him trembling slightly under her touch, saw his breath quicken.
When her hands slid between his thighs, soaping his length, he groaned. She stroked him slowly, feeling him harden further in her palm.
"Rachel," he said, his voice strained.
"Yeah?"
"Keep doing that and we're not getting clean."
She smiled against his shoulder. "Who said I wanted to get clean?"
His hand caught her wrist, stilling her movement. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and hungry. Then he spun her gently until her back was against the tile wall, the cool ceramic contrasting with the hot water still spraying down.
His hand caught her wrist, stilling her movement. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and hungry, then spun her gently until her back was against the tile wall, the cool ceramic contrasting with the hot water still spraying down.
"Logan," she breathed.
"I've got you, baby."
His fingers moved against her with purpose, finding the rhythm that made her hips roll into his touch. His thumb found her clit and she moaned, the sound echoing off the tile. The pleasure built fast and sharp, coiling tighter in her belly with every stroke.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips and her nails digging into his shoulders. Her whole body trembled, her legs barely holding her up. He held her through it, one arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her steady against the wall.
When she could breathe again, she looked up at him through the steam and spray. "Your turn."
She reached for him again, wrapping her hand around his hard length. He groaned, his head falling forward, forehead pressing against the tile beside her head. His hips rocked into her touch, seeking more friction, more pressure.
She stroked him the way she'd learned he liked, firm, steady, her thumb brushing over the head with each pass. His breathing grew ragged, his body tensing. His hand braced against the tile beside her head, muscles flexing in his arm.
"Rachel," he groaned. "I'm close."
"Good. I want to watch you."
That did it. He came with a groan that was half her name, his release spilling over her hand and being washed away by the spray. She watched his face as he fell apart, the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his whole body shuddered.
When he could move again, he kissed her. Deep and thorough, tasting like gratitude and possession and something more tender.
"Come on," he said quietly, his voice rough. "Let's actually get clean now."
They washed each other for real this time. Shampooed hair, fingers massaging scalps. Rinsed soap. Small, intimate touches that felt more meaningful than the orgasms had. The casual intimacy of knowing someone's body, of being comfortable in shared space.
When they got out, Ghost wrapped her in a towel and dried her off carefully. Her hair. Her back. Between her toes. Like she was precious. Like she mattered.
Then he dried himself quickly and they got dressed, her in clean clothes that smelled like Target and new fabric, him in fresh sweatpants and a faded Navy T-shirt.
Rachel felt different. Lighter somehow. Like something had shifted between them in that shower. Like they'd crossed another invisible line toward something more permanent.
***
By evening, they were at the dining table again.
The sun was lower now, casting long golden shadows across the room.
Rachel was cross-referencing convoy routes, her laptop screen reflecting in her glasses.
Ghost sat across from her, working through encrypted reports, his expression focused and intense.
The house was quiet except for the tap of keys and the occasional rustle of paper. Outside, she could hear someone's sprinkler system cycling on, the rhythmic tchk-tchk-tchk of water hitting pavement.
Ghost's phone rang, the sound sharp in the quiet. He glanced at the screen.
"Echo."
He answered, putting it on speaker. "What've you got?"
Echo's voice came through, tinny through the phone speaker. "Ran that trace on the number that texted Rachel. Burner phone, but I got a location ping. Downtown San Diego. Near the Gaslamp Quarter."
Rachel's stomach dropped. Her hands stilled on the keyboard.
"They're close," Ghost said. His voice was calm, controlled, but she saw his jaw tighten.
"Yeah. And they're moving. I'm tracking cell tower hits. Looks like they've been canvassing the area. Hotels. Rentals. Anywhere someone might lay low."
Ghost's knuckles went white where he gripped the phone. "How long do we have?"
"Hard to say. Could be days. Could be hours. But they're not giving up."
"Copy that. Keep me posted."
"Will do. And Ghost?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep her close."
"Plan on it."
He ended the call and looked at Rachel. She could see the tension in his shoulders now, the concern in his eyes that he was trying to hide.
"They're not going to find you," he said. "Not here."
Rachel nodded. But her hands were cold and her chest felt tight. The fear was back, different from this morning's anger. This was colder. More visceral. They were close. Getting closer.
Ghost stood and came around the table. He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. "Hey. Look at me."
She met his eyes.
"We're going to end this. Two more days and the team's back. We run the op. We get the proof we need. And then we bury these bastards." His hand cupped her face, fingers threading through her hair. "You just have to trust me a little longer."
"I do trust you."
"Good." He kissed her forehead, lingering there. "Because I'm not letting anything happen to you."
She pressed her face against his chest, breathing him in. He smelled like the body wash from earlier and something that was just him. His arms came around her, solid and warm, and she let herself believe him. Let herself feel safe despite the fear trying to claw its way up her throat.
***
Later that night, they ended up on the couch.
Rachel was curled against Ghost's side, her head on his chest, his arm around her.
Some action movie played on the TV, explosions and car chases and dialogue they weren't really following.
The volume was low enough that she could still hear his heartbeat beneath her ear.
Outside, the night had turned cool. She could hear the ocean through the open window, waves hitting the shore in a steady rhythm. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked twice and went quiet.
"Can I ask you something?" Rachel said after a while.
"Yeah."
"How do you do it? Go into danger over and over. Knowing you might not come back."
Ghost was quiet for a moment. His hand kept moving in slow circles against her back. "It's what I'm trained for. What I'm good at."
"But doesn't it scare you?"
"Sometimes." His hand moved up to her hair, fingers threading through the strands. "But the fear means you're still human. It keeps you sharp. Keeps you alive."
Rachel tilted her head to look up at him. His face was cast in the blue light from the TV, shadows emphasizing the strong line of his jaw. "Have you ever thought about doing something else? After?"
"After what?"
"After the Navy. After all this."
He considered that, his eyes on the TV but clearly not seeing it. "Sometimes. But I don't know what else I'd do. This is all I've ever been."
"That's not true."
He looked down at her. "What do you mean?"
"You're more than just a soldier, Logan. You're..." She searched for the right words. "You're kind. And patient. You notice things, like how I take my coffee, or when I need space versus when I need you to hold me. And you make really good scrambled eggs."
He laughed quietly, the sound rumbling through his chest against her cheek. "That the bar now? Scrambled eggs?"
"It's a start." She smiled against his shirt. "I'm just saying, you could do anything. Be anything. You don't have to keep putting yourself in danger just because it's all you know."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "What about you? You ever think about doing something other than war zones?"
Rachel was quiet, thinking about it seriously. "Sometimes. But it feels important, you know? Telling the stories that need to be told. Showing people what's really happening. Making them see what they'd rather ignore."
"It is important. What you do matters."
"So does what you do."
"Maybe. But I'm good at violence. You're good at truth. There's a difference."
Rachel shifted so she could see his face better. "You're good at protecting people. There's nothing wrong with that."
His expression softened. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You're just now noticing."
He smiled and pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her.
They fell into comfortable silence, the TV flickering in front of them.
Rachel felt her eyes getting heavy. The combination of the warm body beneath her, the stress of the day finally catching up, and the rhythmic sound of his breathing was pulling her toward sleep.
"Rachel?" Ghost's voice was quiet.
"Hmm?"
"About last night. The nightmare. If you have another one, wake me up. Okay?"
She nodded against his chest. "Okay."
His arm tightened around her. "I mean it. Don't try to handle it alone."
"I won't."
She felt him relax beneath her, felt his breathing start to even out. His hand kept moving through her hair, fingers gentle against her scalp. And slowly, she let herself drift off, anchored by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the safety of his arms around her.
Tomorrow they'd keep working. Keep building the case. Keep waiting for the team to come back. But tonight, she had this. She had him. And for now, that was enough.