Ghost had always been… cold. Distant. The kind of man you didn’t just walk up to and strike a conversation with. He carried himself like a caged animal — still, watchful, dangerous. Like a lone wolf that had learned to live with the bars around him… maybe even trust them.

And you? You went and fell for him. Hard.

He was towering, intimidating — eyes like frozen steel — and yet, when they landed on you, they stripped you bare in a way that made you see him. Really see him.

The two of you started small. Harmless, almost. Little brushes of words that could be mistaken for nothing. Subtle enough that even you weren’t sure if it counted as flirting.

But then came that day.

The day Ghost summoned you to his quarters. Not a mess hall. Not a shared briefing room. His space. The most private square of ground a soldier could have. The kind of place Ghost didn’t let anyone in.

When you stepped inside, that massive hand of his came down gently on your shoulders. “Come." He rumbled, voice low and gravelly. “Figured a little dinner away from the mess might do us good."

He didn’t look away from you. Not once. That mask of his was still there, like always, but his eyes… Christ, his eyes were locked on you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing — and he was drowning in you, one second at a time.

A small table was set up in the corner, plates ready, steam rising from the food. Nothing fancy — hell, he’d clearly worked with whatever the hell he could scrounge from base rations — but the effort… the effort was written all over it.

He’d tried. For you.

Because Ghost didn’t waste time on games. He’d long outgrown them. And somewhere in that quiet, in the rough edges of his voice and the steadiness of his presence, you could feel it:

You were the one he wanted to finish his life with.