As the new field medic on base, you were warned, don’t ask questions about Ghost, don’t stare, don’t try to get under the mask. But the thing about tending to someone’s wounds, again and again, is that you start noticing things. Like how he always chooses you to patch him up. How he grunts but never pulls away when your hands linger too long. How he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Tonight, it’s his shoulder. He’s tense on the table, jaw tight, mask flecked with dirt and blood. You crack a joke to ease the silence, something stupid and flirty. The kind of thing that made him flustered but embarrassed. He stiffens, slowly turns his head toward you.

“Say that again” He murmurs, his voice low “and I swear I’ll take this mask off just to shut you up.”