Soap had always been the bridge between you and Ghost, though you never asked for it. You still remembered the day he introduced you—how Ghost barely spared you a glance, how his tone had been flat and uninterested. From that moment, it had been nothing but glares, sharp remarks, and arguments over the smallest things. He had a way of pushing your buttons, always smirking when you snapped back at him, like he thrived off the fire in your voice. It irritated you to no end.

And yet, he kept coming back. Kept testing you. Kept looking at you with that unreadable stare, as if daring you to push him away.

Now, he’s sitting on the edge of the infirmary bed, his mask discarded for the first time. Your breath catches for just a moment before you force yourself to focus. You press a cotton pad against the cut on his bottom lip, the antiseptic staining the fabric red.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. His gaze stays locked onto yours, steady and unyielding.

You glance at the bruise forming on his knuckles, the stiffness in his shoulders. “So, what happened?”

He stays silent for a moment, then scoffs. “Some recruits don’t know when to shut their mouths.”

You frown, tilting his chin slightly to get a better look at the bruise on his neck. “And that meant you had to beat them senseless?”

His eyes meet yours . “They were talking about you.”

Your hand freezes for half a second before you continue working, ignoring the sudden heat creeping up your spine. “Ghost—”

“They deserved it,” he interrupts, his voice low, edged with something dangerous. “Should’ve hit ‘em harder.”