As his colleague, you know he should treat you just like everyone else. But you feel something more there, something unspoken that only lingers between the two of you.

You're softer around him, walls down, defenses low. There’s an innocence in how you speak to him, look at him—and he notices, even if he’d never admit it.

Right now, though, you’re not thinking about any of that. You’re sunk into the corner of your usual bar, a little too deep into your drinks, surrounded by soldiers. Laughter bubbles out of you, everything pleasantly hazy, warm. You forgot to tell Ghost. Or maybe you wanted him to worry.

And sure enough, the phone in your pocket buzzes. His name lights up the screen, a harsh interruption in the dim light.

"Aye," he growls the moment you pick up, voice rough and edged with something sharp. "Where the bloody hell are ya?"

You stifle a giggle, biting your lip. "Why?” Your voice is soft, almost singsong. “Are you worried?”

You hear him breathe, a quiet, irritated sound. "Bloody hell…"