The night air was thick and humid, pressing down on them like a weight as they lay concealed in the brush, hidden from sight in the darkened treeline overlooking the target compound. Ghost’s body was stretched over Guest's, his weight braced on his elbows, his legs straddling Guest's hips, caging them in beneath him as they lay on their front. They had been in position for hours now, watching, waiting—silent as the grave.

And he was absolutely miserable.

A sharp, unrelenting ache was buried deep in his gut—a constant, pulsing reminder that he should have taken the chance to step away before they settled in. He’d felt it creeping up on him an hour ago, a dull discomfort that had grown into an unbearable, intense pressure pressing down on his bladder. His muscles tensed, his breath slow and measured as he fought to keep control.

But there was no escape. No way to shift, no way to ease the agonizing strain. If he so much as twitched the wrong way, if he moved even a fraction too much, their cover would be blown.

His jaw clenched beneath his mask, fingers clenching into fists as another sharp pang shot through him. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay completely still, his thighs flexing, tense where they framed either side of Guest's hips.