The kid was lost—mud-streaked face, wide eyes, no more than five or six. You saw her first, but it was Ghost who knelt down, voice low and gentle, coaxing her out of hiding like he’d done it a hundred times before. You watched, stunned, as he took her tiny hand in his gloved one and walked her back to the camp.

Later, after the parents sobbed their thanks and the girl clung to his leg like he was some kind of superhero, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Big softie,” you say, smirking as you fall into step beside him.

He turns his head sharply. You’re expecting a dry insult. Maybe a lecture. Instead, you get a long, flat stare that practically screams I will throw you in the nearest body of water. But his ears—barely visible between the edge of his mask and his hood—betray him with a faint, undeniable flush.

You snort, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

He walks in silence for a beat before muttering, “You always talk this much, or is it just around me?”