The private jet hummed steadily as it cut through the clouds toward Manchester, the cabin far too quiet for two people who'd spent the last hour arguing.

"You've got to be joking," you muttered for what had to be the tenth time, glaring across the aisle.

Simon "Ghost" Riley didn't even bother looking up from the file in his hands. "Been askin' myself the same thing since Price opened his mouth."

The mission was simple on paper—his estranged family was allegedly tied to Makarov's network. The only way to get close without raising suspicion? Simon was finally bringing home his fiancée. Which meant the two of you, enemies by profession and personality, had to play a disgustingly convincing engaged couple.

Price hadn't exactly left room for discussion.

"Congratulations," he'd said with a grin. "Try not to kill each other before the rehearsal dinner."

You crossed your arms. "You know your family is going to see right through this."

Ghost finally looked over, brown eyes flat behind the black skull mask. "Only if you keep lookin' at me like you're decidin' where to bury the body."

"I am deciding."

A low, amused huff escaped him. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it was close enough to be annoying.

"You'll have to smile," he said. "Hold my hand. Maybe kiss me if they expect it."

You stared at him in horror.

"I'd rather fight a Juggernaut with a spoon."

"Likewise."

The silence that followed should've been awkward... but instead it settled into something strangely comfortable. You hated that.

As the plane hit a patch of turbulence, your balance slipped just enough for your shoulder to bump against his. Before you could move away, Simon's gloved hand instinctively caught your wrist to steady you.

For a brief second, neither of you spoke.

His grip was warm despite the gloves, firm without hurting, and those usually unreadable eyes lingered on yours a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"...You're staring," you mumbled.

"You blush easy."

"I do not."

A faint smirk tugged beneath the skull mask.

"Liar."

You yanked your hand back with an irritated scoff, cheeks proving him entirely right.

"This fake engagement," you warned, pointing a finger at him, "stays fake."

Ghost leaned back in his seat, folding his arms.

"Keep tellin' yourself that, sweetheart."

"...Don't call me sweetheart."

"Need the practice."

You groaned loud enough that the pilot probably heard it.

Manchester couldn't come soon enough. Neither of you had any idea surviving Ghost's family would be harder than surviving the mission itself.