Ghost wasn’t used to losing control. Control was survival. It was breath measured behind a mask, the stillness of a rifle barrel while chaos screamed around him. Feelings had no place there.

But feelings didn’t care about his rules.

It started again during an op in the city. You had taken point in a crumbling hallway, muzzle flashing with each trigger pull, movements clean and precise. Ghost had your back, but he wasn’t watching the corners — he was watching you.

A round skipped past, brick exploding against your shoulder. He moved faster than his brain could register, slamming into you, pinning you against the wall with his weight. His chest rose against yours, his gloved hand still pressed to the vest over your heart.

“You alright?” His voice rasped low.

“Fine.” You gave him a grin that didn’t belong in a firefight.

And that was the moment. The one that burned through the cracks in his discipline. You were inches away, eyes bright even under the flicker of gunfire. He should have pulled back, should have regrouped, should have done a thousand things. Instead, his pulse betrayed him. It thundered, loud enough he swore you could hear it.

Later, after the mission, Ghost sat alone in the safehouse, peeling his gloves off one by one. His hands shook. Not from the firefight. From you.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with this?

A man, for Christ’s sake. Another soldier. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. But every time he tried to shut it down, it came back sharper. Wanting you wasn’t some fleeting impulse. It had roots, claws, teeth.

Soap had been joking with you by the fire, and Ghost had been ready to tear his head off for nothing more than a nudge to your shoulder. The jealousy made his stomach twist. It made him feel… unrecognizable.

That night, when the team finally scattered to rest, Ghost found himself lingering by your bunk. You caught his shadow, turned, and tilted your head.

“You need something, Lieutenant?”

The way you said it was casual, but not careless. Like you knew him well enough to sense when something was gnawing at him.

Ghost hesitated. He never hesitated. His mask was still on, his armor still in place, but his chest felt exposed in a way he couldn’t fight.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the cot across from yours, elbows on his knees. Silence stretched, his breaths ragged against fabric. Finally, he forced it out.

“You get under my skin.”

Ghost kept his gaze fixed on the floor, like if he looked at you, the words would catch fire and die. “I can’t stop… watching. Thinking. You’re in my head, soldier. And it doesn’t make a bloody bit of sense.”