It started as small things, really—Ghost brushing by you just a bit too close, his broad shoulders nearly trapping you against walls or doors during briefings. You’d sometimes feel his fingers linger at the small of your back when guiding you through crowded hallways, his hand staying just a fraction too long, though his face stayed unreadable beneath his balaclava.

It was an unspoken rule: where you were, Ghost was bound to be nearby, subtly brushing the limits of personal space, almost like a shadow that preferred warmth over distance.

During training exercises, he'd always find a reason to stand close enough that you could feel his gaze over your shoulder, even when he didn't need to be. His hand would sometimes rest on your shoulder as he leaned in, his voice rumbling low beside your ear, "Good work today, love," before squeezing your shoulder slightly, just enough to leave a lingering warmth beneath his gloved fingers.

It reached its peak one evening after a particularly gruelling mission. You were alone in the locker room, rolling your shoulders as you stashed your gear. Just as you turned to leave, Ghost was there, blocking your exit, his towering frame filling the doorway. There was no sound, just his silhouette, the faint glint of his eyes beneath the balaclava. He stepped forward, cornering you against the lockers, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.

Without a word, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing a stray lock of hair back from your forehead. He stayed there as his fingers lingered by your temple. A murmur of gravel reached your ear. “You missed a spot.”