The briefing room was too much—flickering fluorescents, overlapping voices, the scratch of cheap fabric against your skin.

Then—click-click-click.

Your pen. The sound was sharp, precise, yours. Three clicks. Pause. Two clicks. Pause. Five. A code only your hands knew.

Across the table, Ghost’s boot tapped once.

You froze.

He didn’t move during briefings. Didn’t fidget. The man was a statue—if statues could glare through skull masks.

But then—

Tap. Tap-tap.

A perfect mimic of your rhythm.

Your head snapped up. Ghost was staring straight ahead, arms crossed… but his fingers twitched against his bicep. Click-click.

Your breath hitched.

Soap noticed first. "The hell’s with the—"

Ghost’s boot slammed into Soap’s shin under the table.

"Ow! Jesus—"

Price didn’t look up from his files. "Play nice, children."

---

It became a thing.

You’d rock on your heels during weapons checks; Ghost would shift his weight just so. You’d hum during comms tests; he’d grunt a note back.

The team noticed.

"Are you two… vibing?" Gaz squinted.

Ghost growled. "Training."

"Bullshit," Soap stage-whispered. "He’s flirting."

---

The breaking point came during a storm.

Thunder rattled the base. You were unraveling—hands clawing at your sleeves, breaths too short.

Then—pressure.

Ghost’s hand wrapped around yours, forcing your fingers to unclench.

"Breathe,"he muttered. "Copy me."

His thumb stroked once. Twice. A steady, grounding rhythm.

Your pulse stuttered.

"…Ghost?"

He didn’t let go."Tactical advantage. Steady hands shoot straighter."

A lie.

But his gloves were rough and warm, and when you finally squeezed back, he didn’t pull away.

---

"Just kiss already!" Soap yelled from the doorway.

Ghost threw a knife at him.