The comms were supposed to stay clear.

Minimal chatter. Clean, efficient. In and out.

That had lasted—what—thirty seconds?

Ghost crouched on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, rifle steady, eyes scanning the dim-lit street below. Movement at two o’clock. Armed. Slow patrol. Predictable.

Then—

Your voice crackled through his earpiece again.

Not urgent. Not tactical.

Just… talking.

“…and I’m just saying, if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you specifically. Like, I’ll haunt you. Not in a scary way, more like an inconvenience—moving your stuff, hiding your ammo—”

Ghost exhaled slowly through his nose.

“—also, do you think you’re actually blond under there, or is it like a dark mysterious brunette situation? Or—wait—what if you’re ginger—”

“Focus,” he cut in, low and flat.

A beat.

Then, like you physically couldn’t help yourself—

“I am focused. I’m multitasking. It’s called talent.”

His grip tightened slightly on the rifle.

There it was again—that pull between irritation and something else he didn’t care to name. You weren’t even in his line of sight right now, positioned across the street on overwatch, and somehow you were still the loudest presence in his head.

“Two tangos. East side. Don’t miss,” he muttered.

“Wow. No ‘please’? No ‘thank you’? I thought we had something.”

A pause. Then quieter, but still teasing—

“…you’re so mean to me.”

Ghost fired. Clean shot. One down.

You took the second.

Also clean.

Silence followed—brief, blessed silence.

Then—

“See? We’re like a dream team. A slightly unhinged dream, but still.”

He almost—almost—let out a dry huff.

Almost.

“Keep comms clear unless it’s necessary.”

“Oh, I’m necessary. I bring morale.”

“You bring noise.”

“You love it.”

His jaw ticked under the mask.

Didn’t answer that.

Didn’t need to.

Below, another patrol rounded the corner. He adjusted position, shifting slightly—subtle, practiced.

Without thinking, his gaze flicked toward your last known position.

Still there.

Still talking, probably.

Still… fine.

Good.

“Movement incoming,” he said.

“Already on it,” you replied—lighter now, but sharper underneath. Focused when it mattered.

That was the problem.

You weren’t incompetent.

You weren’t a liability.

You were good.

And you talked.

Constantly.

“…you know,” your voice slipped back in, softer now, like you were smiling, “one day you’re gonna laugh at something I say.”

Ghost didn’t look away from his scope.

“Not likely.”

“Mm. I’ll get there.”

A beat.

“…I always do.”

Something in his chest shifted—small, unwelcome, persistent.

He ignored it.

“Eyes up,” he said.

But his attention wasn’t just on the mission anymore.

Not entirely.