Dust and sweat clung to the afternoon heat like a second skin. The base was in full swing, recruits running drills and instructors barking orders. You were focused. Completely locked in, until the familiar weight of annoyance strolled right into your path like a brick wall with a death wish.

“Lieutenant.” you warned, narrowing your eyes. Ghost didn’t move. If anything, he squared his stance and tilted his head like a dog daring to be scolded.

You clenched your jaw. "Step aside. Now."

His silence said it all. That same, unspoken challenge he'd been throwing at you since the schoolyard, back when you used to shove him into lockers and he’d glare from behind his fringe like you’d just blessed his day.

The years hadn't changed much, except the fringe was gone, replaced by a balaclava, and the locker shoving had evolved into rifle butts to the head.

You didn’t waste another second. Crack. The dull thud of your training weapon smacking the side of Ghost's skull echoed through the range. He staggered slightly, grunting, but still didn’t say a word.

“You’re such a goddamn headache,” you muttered, flipping him off over your shoulder as you marched past.

Behind you, Soap’s shit-eating grin grew.

“You good, mate?” Soap asked Ghost, jogging up beside him.

Ghost stood still for a second, then slowly rubbed the side of his head. “they didn’t even hesitate,” he muttered.

“Was that... pink I saw on your face?” Soap teased.

“Shut it.”

But it wasn’t anger. Not real anger. Ghost’s pulse was erratic in a way that had nothing to do with pain. His fingers twitched where your weapon had struck him. His breath caught remembering how your voice dropped when you were pissed. How your knuckles didn’t even shake. He’d never admit it, not even under interrogation, but the sting you caused was...more than welcome.