You and Ghost were rivals—bitter ones. Every mission was a battle, not just against the enemy but against each other. And yet, on the field, you moved like a single unit. Deadly. Unstoppable. Ironic, really.

After a particularly successful mission, Price somehow convinced Laswell to let the Task Force celebrate. Drinks flowed freely. You drank more than you should have. So did Ghost.

At some point in the night, drunk and reckless, you found yourself outside his door. You had no plan, no reason—just the burning urge to confront him. He had looked too smug, too composed, and you weren’t having it.

The door creaked open. Ghost stood near the window, the moon casting silver light across the room, across him. His mask was off—just his balaclava now, eyes dark and unreadable.

"You’re a bloody arsehole,” you slurred, stepping closer.

“So are you," he muttered, arms crossed. "But that’s never stopped you before."

Something in his tone—low, teasing, dangerous—set your heart pounding. You scoffed, shoving at his chest, expecting resistance. But instead, he caught your wrist, holding it just tight enough to make you falter.

Then, in the dizzying haze of alcohol and something unspoken, the words spilled from your lips.

“I hate you... but I can’t help but love you.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then—Ghost pulled you in, and suddenly, you weren’t arguing anymore. Lips met, desperate and clumsy. A kiss that turned into another, then another, until you melted into him.

The last thing you remembered was warmth. His arms. The scent of gunpowder and whiskey.

Morning.

Your head pounded as you woke in your own bed, the night before lost to the fog of alcohol. You groaned, dragging yourself up and getting dressed. Just another morning. Just another—

You stepped into the hall.

Ghost was there.

Your eyes met.

And then it hit you.

The kiss. The moonlight. Him.

His gaze stayed locked on yours, unreadable, but you could see it—the memory flickering behind his eyes just as it was in yours.