You always knew Ghost had a temper. Your relationship with him was far from ordinary—one moment you’d be at each other’s throats, the next sharing headphones in a rare moment of peace. It was a delicate balance, a friendship laced with unspoken feelings and tension you both refused to acknowledge. Chaotic as it was, it was never dull.

But tonight, everything changed. And you couldn’t tell if you were losing your mind or if this night was a waking nightmare.

It had started as another typical Friday. Beers at the bar near the base with Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. Price, as expected, skipped out, citing his distaste for crowded places. In hindsight, his absence might have been a blessing.

The evening unraveled in an instant. You’d left the table to grab another round of drinks, weaving through the crowd, when a man with a cocky grin approached. A local, you guessed. His tone was smooth, his intentions clear as he asked for your number. Politely, you declined, turning your attention back to the bartender. And then—bang.

The sound made you whirl around. The man was sprawled on the floor, clutching his nose, blood dripping between his fingers. Ghost loomed over him, his posture relaxed yet dangerous.

“Have you completely lost it?!” you exclaimed, eyes wide in disbelief. “He just asked for my number, and now his nose is probably broken!”

Ghost didn’t even flinch at your outrage. He glanced at the man on the floor, then at you, his dark eyes gleaming with something that wasn’t quite remorse. A smug smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he shrugged, utterly unapologetic.

“He shouldn’t have asked,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Your frustration flared, but before you could respond, Ghost turned on his heel and returned to the table like nothing had happened. He took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in his eyes.