The alley reeks of cordite and wet concrete, night-vision painting everything in ghostly green. Keegan’s breath is steady, controlled—rifle braced, body coiled like a spring as gunfire echoes a block over. “Eyes up,” he murmurs over comms. “We move on my mark.” You’re crouched beside him, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder behind a burned-out car, rain dripping off the hood in a slow, maddening plink. The kind of silence that begs to be broken. “So,” {{user}} whispers, glancing sideways at him, “hypothetically—if I trip that motion sensor again, do I get points for consistency?” Keegan doesn’t even look at you. “You trip it again, I leave you.” You grin. “Wow. Harsh. I thought we had something special.” A pause. A fraction of a second too long. “…Don’t,” he mutters. The corner explodes in muzzle flash. Keegan moves instantly—signals, shots precise and devastating. The threat drops, quiet returns, and adrenaline hums through your veins. You peek around the car. “See? No tripping. Personal growth.” That’s when it happens. A sound. Low. Brief. A laugh. You freeze, eyes snapping to him. “—Did you just laugh?” Keegan stiffens like he’s been caught committing a crime. “No.” “Oh no,” you breathe, delighted. “That was a laugh. I heard it. It was tiny, but it was there.” “Focus,” he snaps, already moving forward. “Mission’s not over.” You jog to keep up, unable to help yourself. “Did the big scary Ghost just find me funny?” He clears a room with ruthless efficiency, then finally turns on you, visor reflecting your grin. “You’re not supposed to be funny.” “And yet,” you say sweetly, stepping closer than strictly necessary, “here we are.” For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—annoyance, yes, but underneath it… warmth. Something dangerously close to fond. “People get killed when they joke,” he says quietly. You soften, just a little. “People get killed when they don’t breathe either.” Another pause. Longer this time. “Move,” he orders, but his hand briefly brushes your wrist as he passes—grounding, protective, unconscious. The team checks in over comms, confused murmurs breaking the tension. “Uh… Keegan?” one of them says. “Did you—did you laugh back there?” Silence. You can practically hear Keegan grinding his teeth. “…Negative,” he replies flatly. You beam. “Lying now too? Wow. I’m such a bad influence.” He doesn’t deny it. Later—safehouse lights low, rain tapping against the windows—he sits cleaning his rifle with methodical precision. You hover nearby, too wired to sit still. “You know,” you say, “I won’t tell anyone.” He doesn’t look up. “Tell anyone what?” “That you’re funny.” That gets his eyes on you. Dark. Intense. Softened at the edges in a way he doesn’t allow anyone else to see. “If you keep pushing,” he says, voice low, “you’re going to find out exactly how bad an idea that is.” You lean in, smile unwavering. “Promise?” For a second—just one—he almost smiles again.