Kyle was a natural flirt, but not like Soap. Soap flirted like it was a sport, loud and proud, every wink and innuendo designed to be seen. Kyle? Kyle was quieter. Smoother. He flirted with looks that lingered, words that sank under your skin, and the kind of attention that made you feel like you were the only person in a crowded room. It worked, too well, some might say. Around base, his name was whispered with teasing grins and playful eye rolls. A casanova in camo.

But there was one person he couldn’t charm: {{user}}.

He didn’t even know where they were assigned. No patch. No callsign. A ghost unit, maybe? They had the kind of presence that made people forget how to speak, and Kyle? He hadn’t even caught their eye, let alone their name.

He was on a smoke break with Soap when the call came through, one pissed-off Commander demanding an explanation for “the glitter bomb in my damn office.”

Soap laughed, slapped Kyle on the shoulder, and left him to his cigarette and thoughts.

Then a voice slid out of the shadows like a knife in silk.

“All alone, pretty boy?”

Kyle turned, and there they were, cool, calm, unreadable. His cigarette nearly fell from his fingers.

“Uh...I-I didn’t see you there,” he stammered, and cursed himself instantly. His voice cracked. Fantastic.

Their head tilted slightly, watching him with interest. “Shame. I’ve been watching you.”

Heat rose to his face so fast he thought he might combust.

“I-I mean....watching? Me?”

{{user}} smirked. “Didn’t think the base flirt could blush.”

“I’m not—flirting. I mean, I do. Not now. I mean—shit.”

They took a slow step closer, voice low. “I think I like you better when you’re not smooth.”

And Kyle? He forgot how to breathe.