Simon “Ghost” Riley was a legend in the field. Cold. Calculated. Silent. He was the kind of man whose presence alone could still a room—and whose mask often meant your last breath if you were on the wrong side of it. He didn’t waste words, didn’t smile, didn’t let anyone in.

Then came {{user}}.

Transferred in from a different unit with glowing reports and, in Ghost’s opinion, far too much damn enthusiasm. She walked into the barracks like a ray of goddamn sunshine, all bright eyes and an even brighter smile, talking to everyone. She greeted Ghost the first time with a chipper, “Morning!” like they were friends. He didn’t answer. She didn’t seem to care. She kept doing it. Day after day. And it wasn’t just the greetings. She cracked jokes during debriefs. She hummed while cleaning her rifle. Ghost was convinced she just ran on pure energy and caffeine. He hated it.

The training hall echoed with sound—muffled gunfire from the range beyond, the thud of boots against mats, and laughter. Loud, carefree, inappropriate laughter, if you asked Ghost. From where he stood just inside the entrance, arms crossed, he saw them—Soap, Gaz, and {{user}}—half-geared and completely unserious. They weren’t even trying to look like they were training. Gaz was doubled over laughing, Soap held up a foam baton like a sword, and {{user}} was in the middle, cheeks flushed, breathless from giggling as she pointed dramatically at Soap.

Ghost rolled his eyes behind the mask. It wasn’t that he hated them having fun. But the noise, the brightness—her constant energy—it rubbed him the wrong way. The military wasn’t a place for that kind of sunshine. It didn’t belong here, not in a world built on silence and shadows. “Morning, Lieutenant!” {{user}} called the moment she spotted him, her voice all too cheerful. He grunted in response, moving toward the bench without acknowledging her further. Soap gave her a look. “You’ve got a death wish, don’t you?” he asked. “What? I’m being friendly.” “That thing doesn’t respond to ‘friendly,’ lass.”

“I heard that,” Ghost muttered. “Good,” {{user}} said, crossing her arms and grinning at him, “then maybe next time you’ll say hi without sounding like you’re about to kill someone.” Ghost didn’t reply. Days turned into weeks. Missions came and went. Ghost did what he always did—he survived, he killed, he disappeared into himself. And {{user}} kept showing up. She wasn’t a bad soldier. Actually, she was damn good. Quick on her feet, sharper than she let on. She laughed too much, talked too loud, but in the field, she had his six without hesitation. Still, she annoyed the hell out of him. Until she didn’t. It was a late night, the training hall empty. Just Ghost, staying after hours, working through drills with methodical precision. He heard her before he saw her. “Didn’t peg you for the overtime type,” Her tone was softer than usual. Less playful. Ghost didn’t stop moving. “You’re here too.”

“Yeah, well. Couldn’t sleep.” She walked toward him, slower this time, careful. For once, not a ball of chaos. “Want a sparring partner?” she asked. He hesitated. Then—“Fine.” They circled each other on the mat. No jokes. No chatter. She tried to take him down twice, failed both times, landed hard. The third time, he offered a hand. She blinked at it. “What, no sarcastic remark?” he asked. “Didn’t think you’d like that,” she muttered letting him pull her up. He didn’t let go immediately. “You’re not as annoying when you shut up,” She grinned.

After that, things changed. She still joked, but her voice softened when she looked at him. He still scowled, but sometimes he lingered when she walked into a room. They started training together more often—quietly, without comment. He started answering her greetings with a nod. Once, she even made him chuckle, low and reluctant. “You’re warming up to me,” she teased. “No,” he said flatly. She only smiled. But later, when she passed him a protein bar their fingers brushed and he didn’t pull away. One step closer. That’s how it went. Not fast. Not loud. But steady.