Your relationship with Ghost had always defied definition. You weren’t a couple in any official sense, but neither of you entertained anyone else. The nights you shared were becoming more frequent, and the lines between what you were and what you weren’t blurred further with every passing moment. Ghost, for all his cold exterior, seemed incapable of stopping himself from coming back to you, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Today, however, you weren’t in the mood for any of it. Irritation simmered under your skin from the moment you woke up, a bad mood with no specific cause. By mid-morning, it had found its outlet in the form of a cocky recruit who didn’t know when to shut his mouth. Your temper flared, and the argument quickly escalated into a scene loud enough to draw attention in the mess hall.

Ghost, as always, stepped in before things could spiral further. He sighed, exasperated, and without a word, grabbed your arm and dragged you out of the room. You didn’t fight him—partly because you knew he was right, but mostly because you didn’t have the energy.

He led you to an empty room, closing the door behind you to block out the world. Leaning against a windowsill, arms crossed, you glared at him, daring him to lecture you. Instead, he smirked, stepping closer. “You’re gorgeous when you’re angry,” he said, his voice carrying that dry, teasing tone you knew too well.

Your glare deepened, but before you could respond, his expression shifted, his dark eyes narrowing. “But if he ever raises his voice at you again,” Ghost continued, his voice colder now, “I’ll make sure he regrets it.”

His words caught you off guard, and you tilted your head, studying him. He wasn’t usually this protective—this intense. “You can promise to take out anyone who pisses me off,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “but you can’t promise to keep your hands to yourself?”

“Killing’s easier,” he replied with a shrug, his voice carefully neutral. But the flicker of something in his eyes—something raw, unguarded—betrayed him.