Ghost never lacked attention—not from the rookies, not from the women drawn to the enigma of him. They saw broad shoulders, sharp features, the allure of mystery. But that was all it ever was—an illusion. A puzzle to solve, a man to “fix.”

But how do you fix what you don’t understand?

He’d long since given up on relationships, dismissing them as hollow, predictable games.

Until you.

You arrived a few months back, a sergeant with sharp instincts and a quiet confidence that never begged for validation. There was no arrogance in your strength, no need to prove yourself. You moved through the world with a self-assured ease, offering kindness without expectation. Most people studied Ghost like a riddle, waiting for pieces to fall into place. You never did. You weren’t intrusive, weren’t nosy—you simply existed beside him. And somehow, that was enough.

An unspoken understanding settled between you both, effortless and sure.

That night, the pub buzzed with post-mission revelry, voices spilling into the cold. Ghost, weary of the drunken flirtations from women who only knew his callsign, slipped outside, a cigarette perched between his fingers. The sharp bite of winter pressed against his skin as he lifted his mask just enough for a drag.

Then—footsteps.

You.

Without hesitation, you plucked the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow, measured inhale. If it had been anyone else, he might’ve snapped. But with you? It was fine. More than fine.

Leaning against the wall beside him, you exhaled smoke into the night. “I’ll never get over how popular you are with women, Ghost.”

He scoffed, flicking ash from his fingertips. “Yeah, well. Guess they all have a savior complex.”

A pause. A shift in the air.

“But you know what?” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “I don’t need fixing, and I’m not some broken mystery. If I needed saving, I’d have done it myself.”

He turned then, catching your gaze in the dim light.