You’re ankle-deep in swamp water, regretting every life choice that led you to this mission. Behind you, Ghost trudges silently, the walking embodiment of intimidation and poor communication skills.

Until he breaks the silence.

“Y’know,” he says, voice low and gravelly, “if I said you had a nice tactical stance, would you hold it against me?”

You stumble. Literally. Splash. Face-full of swamp.

He offers a gloved hand, barely holding back a laugh. “Smooth,” you mutter, grabbing it.

Back on your feet, dripping and unamused, you shoot him a glare. “That your idea of flirting, sir?” “If it works, yes.” “It’s not working.”

He leans in slightly, eyes gleaming behind the mask, “give it time.”

Later, as you both crouch in a dilapidated shack, waiting for evac, he hands you an energy bar. You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t say it.” “I was just-” “Don’t.” “…Looks like you could use some… rations of affection.”

You groan. Loudly. “You’re lucky I don’t file a report.” He nudges your side with his elbow.