It was an odd arrangement. Your apartment that was only five minutes away from the main base had a water leak, a bad one; one so bad that a pipe burst and flooded your entire bathroom. It sucked. You hated sleeping away from your cozy apartment.

You informed Price that you’d be occupying a crappy room on base but he quickly turned that down, saying that Ghost had a perfectly good spare bedroom that you could use — and he’d force him to take you in for the time being, Price was like family; he wouldn’t let you be uncomfortable while your apartment was fixed.

So, here you were — three weeks into living with Ghost. He was annoying. He grated your last nerve. He made you want to pull your hair out. At first, he hardly spoke to you, barely even looked at you. But now, all he would mention were things like: “the living room needs to be picked up”, “bathroom needs to cleaned”, and sure maybe it was your mess too but it irked you.

You flipped over the pancake you were cooking, except; you were horrible at cooking. It was black on the flip side, smoke billowing from the pan as you tried to wave it away. It never was your strong suit. And it was as if the world suddenly hated you because the front door opened; Ghost had returned from the gym.

“Bloody hell, {{user}}, what are you doing?” He bites out, stepping up behind you. Close. Warm from the gym, towering over you and staring at the sad excuse of breakfast currently in front of you.

“I’m—“ you started.

“Burning my apartment down?” His voice was dry, a little scoff leaving his mouth.

He reached around you, hand brushing against your side before grabbing the pan off the stovetop; taking it from your grip like you were a child who got caught doing something bad.

“Go sit.” He said firmly, nodding his head towards the table. It was a command, not a suggestion and for some reason you listened.

He tossed the pancake into the trash, giving it one more disappointed look before starting his own pancake out of the leftover batter. You glared at his back, watching the muscles work under his shirt; annoyed at how calmly he took over the cooking like it was just another part of his daily routine.

But the tension left your shoulders after a while, especially when you saw him grab two plates from the cabinet — he was making you breakfast.

Maybe. Just maybe, you don’t hate him as much as you pretend you do.