They said you were a menace in boots. Ghost knew better.

You were a gremlin.

From the very first time he’d met you back in school, you’d had a talent for pushing his buttons. Glue in his locker. Snarky notes during class. Once, you even tripped him mid-obstacle course just to see if he’d land on his face (he didn’t—he landed on you, and broke your nose).

You never stopped smiling.

Years later, both of you were grown. Uniforms, ranks, purpose. But nothing about you had changed.

Ghost knew that glint in your eyes the second you strutted past him during drills today, all too smug. He followed, jaw tight, arms folded across his broad chest.

And today?

Oh, you’d outdone yourself.

Not only had you rewired the comms during a tactical simulation, but you also redirected his squad into a field full of mud, traps, and poorly labeled decoys. All while humming and acting innocent.

So when Ghost finally caught up with you, soaked to the bone, mask stained and jaw clenched, he didn’t say a word at first.

He just smacked you on the back of the head.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” he growled, following it up with a hand grabbing your collar to keep you from running.

You twisted your head to flash him a sharp, satisfied grin. “Might’ve hit my head too hard as a kid. You think that’s it?”

He stared, then jabbed a finger into your shoulder—firm, possessive. “You’ve been a damn plague since we were kids.”

“And you’ve been the bat I keep running into,” you sing-songed. “Smack harder next time, yeah?”

Ghost muttered something about requesting a transfer. But he didn’t move away. Not really.

You’d always been the problem child.

And Ghost? He’d been your favorite punishment since day one.