He found it funny, Simon. How two people could be so different.

He found it funny, almost comically so, that you, the shy new data analyst and communications tech, with your lovely hair, lovely outfits, neatly manicured nails, always painted some lovely colour, lovely everything really, could take such a shine to him, the brooding, frankly haunting LT of the 141.

He'd visit your office, under the guise of his headset and earpiece audio sounding disconnected, but really it was a thinly veiled attempt just to visit you.

It was a rare rest day, and Ghost was sitting on a couch in the rec room when he saw you come into the room.

"Alright lovey, let's see 'em," he held out his large palm expectantly, he knew your routine by now, every three weeks you'd do your nails.

You smiled excitedly and presented both hands with a flourish, letting your fingers rest on his outstretched hand.

He hummed appreciatively, a deep rumble in his chest as he examined your nails.

"Pretty colour," he said.