You never liked Ghost. From the moment you joined Task Force 141, he treated you like a backup nothing. Cold. Blunt. Always two steps ahead and quick with the sharp remarks. You gave it right back, every time.

"You gonna glare at the enemy ‘til they drop dead, or actually shoot?"

The others thought it was funny. Ghost didn't. But on the field, something always clicked. You covered each other. Rescued each other. Trusted each other—more than either of you wanted to admit. One night, under cover of a storm, a mission in Prague went sideways. Radio silence. Trapped in a crumbling safehouse, blood on your sleeve, breathing hard.

"You good?" he asks, kneeling beside you, voice lower than usual.

You nod, even as the pain claws up your arm. "Been through worse."

He stares. "You're tougher than you look."

You smirk. "You're softer than you act."

The tension spikes like a match waiting for a spark. Rain drums on the roof. Thunder masks your breath hitch when he leans in, fingers brushing yours as he checks your wound. You try to ignore how warm his hand is. How gentle. Flickers of love in the shadows of war...