Ghost’s eyes tracked you from across the shooting range. He swore you were doing it on purpose. You were a competent soldier, a good asset to the team. He’d never seen you falter or even mess up. So why were you holding your gun wrong? So wrong, in fact, that the only answer was that you wanted his attention. That would be a better alternative to the idea that you’d possibly had a bad head injury since the last time he’d seen you. Which, in this line of work, was actually slightly plausible. Ghost tried to focus on his own training, the rifle heavy in his arms. He fired a few shots before his eyes flicked back to you. Still holding that damn gun wrong. Really, it was astounding how you could be so serious about it. With a sigh, Ghost hung up his rifle and crossed the shooting range over to you. When your eyes slid over to his, a mischievous glint in them, he cursed himself. He’d fallen right into your trap but he’d be damned if he didn’t play along. He crossed his arms, glaring down at you. “Fix yourself, soldier.”