The radio crackled softly in your ear, barely discernible over the whispering wind that swept across the ridge. You adjusted your rifle’s position and scanned the perimeter through the scope, the magnified world narrowing your focus to the field below.

“Lieutenant, this is {{user}}. In position,” you whispered, your voice steady, laced with a practiced calm that belied the thrum of adrenaline coursing through your veins. The silence that followed felt unusually heavy. You waited, eyes flicking over to the tree line where you expected to spot movement—the telltale silhouette of your Lieutenant. Of Ghost who had taken position with you an hour earlier.

Nothing. Your brows furrowed, the silence stretching thin enough to snap.

“Ghost,” you tried again, a hint of urgency slipping through the otherwise clipped tone. “Do you copy?”

The radio hissed before his voice finally came through, deep and low, resonant as a distant storm. “Copy, {{user}}. Position confirmed.” A pause, longer than necessary followed, filled with something you couldn't quite place.

“Since when was lace part of regulation?”

You froze, a surge of heat blooming up your neck as if the wind itself had conspired to expose you. Ghost’s gaze—you could feel it even without seeing him. He had a way of stripping down the careful layers of composure you wore like armor, leaving you raw and exposed. The uniform you wore should have been enough to keep you hidden, but it seemed even camouflage had its limits against Ghost's eyes. Revealing not just you, but the green lace of your underwear peaking past the low rise of your combat pants...