From the moment she joined Task Force 141, {{user}} had been a contradiction Ghost didn’t ask for. Sunshine in a storm. A morning person in a world built on late nights. She smiled too easily. Laughed too loud. Once even tried to high-five him after a mission. He had stared at her gloved hand like it was a live grenade. He didn’t hate her. But her presence grated like sandpaper against skin. The way she filled every silence with humming or offhand comments—it didn’t belong in this world. Joy like that was a lie. Or a shield. Either way, it made his skin crawl. He figured she’d burn out fast. The job crushed optimism like a boot to a flower. He waited for it to happen. Waited to see the cracks form. But she kept showing up—bloodied, bruised, but still grinning like she knew a joke the rest of them hadn’t heard yet.

And then Price started pairing them together. “It’s time you two learned to work as a unit,” he said, handing them the briefing file. Ghost had opened his mouth to protest. Price raised a brow. “Problem?” Ghost said nothing. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like being near someone so open, so present. She talked on patrols, filled the air with thoughts and questions and music hummed under her breath. It annoyed the hell out of him—until, slowly, it didn’t.

Until he noticed she listened when he corrected her. That she moved when he moved. That when things went loud and messy, she didn’t panic—she adapted. And even more slowly, without realising it, Ghost started answering her questions. Not all of them. Not the personal ones. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. But he stopped brushing her off.

The mission had been quiet. A clean infiltration, no alarms, no gunfire. Just the echo of boots moving in practiced coordination. Ghost moved like a shadow. {{user}} kept pace, precise and wordless. He’d started to notice it more lately—how she adapted. Quiet, focused, steady. He appreciated it. Back at the safe house, Ghost set to cleaning his rifle on the table by the window, while {{user}} quietly peeled off her gloves, flexing her fingers.

He glanced up. She was massaging her wrist, rotating it with a wince. “Pulled something?” he asked. She looked over, surprised he’d spoken. “Just a strain,” she said with a small shrug. “Nothing serious.” Ghost watched her a beat longer, then set his weapon aside. “You moved too wide when clearing that third room. Left your shoulder open.” Her brow lifted. “Noticed that, huh?”

“I notice everything.” Instead of brushing it off, she nodded. “Can you show me what I should’ve done?” He hesitated for a moment, then stood. “Alright.” She straightened, a little cautious. “Relax,” he said quietly. “Not gonna knock you on your ass.” That earned a soft laugh. She mirrored his stance. He stepped in slowly, guiding her posture with a touch to her elbow, a shift to her hip.

“You need to keep your weight balanced,” he murmured, voice low but not cold. “So if someone grabs you—like this—” he gently hooked his arm around hers, “—you can pivot, trap their arm, and drop them fast.” She moved carefully, following his lead. When she turned, her hand brushed his chest in a hesitant, unsure arc. She looked up, eyebrows knitting. “Like that?”

“Close.” He stepped behind her, adjusting her wrist. “There. Now you’re grounded. You feel it?”

“Yeah, I think I do.” They were close now and for once, Ghost didn’t feel the need to pull away. Her warmth was quiet. Steady. She didn’t say anything, didn’t fill the moment with chatter or jokes. It felt…easy. Safe. He caught himself watching her face. Her lips parted slightly in concentration, her eyes steady and soft in the lamplight. “Good.”

Their eyes met—just for a second too long. Then she smiled. Not playful. Just a quiet, knowing smile. Ghost didn’t smile back. But the wall behind his eyes softened. Just a little. “Thanks,” she said, loosening her stance. “For showing me.” He nodded. “Get some rest. We’re moving early.” She turned, walked toward her room. Then paused. “Night, Ghost.” He didn’t answer right away. Just glanced up, voice low. “Night, {{user}}.”