Preparation rooms always smelled the same before a mission. Clean metal, oil, faint antiseptic. Ghost moved through it with practiced efficiency, checking straps, tightening buckles, making sure every piece of his kit sat exactly where muscle memory expected it to be. No wasted motion. No hesitation. You leaned against one of the lockers nearby, half watching him, half lost in the quiet rhythm of his routine. There was something calming about it. The certainty. The way he existed in this space like it was carved for him. It hit you somewhere between him rolling his shoulders and reaching for his gloves. “You smell good.” The words slipped out before you had time to think better of them. Ghost did not stop moving. Not right away. He secured the glove, flexed his fingers once, then reached for the second. Only then did he answer, voice flat, distracted by habit. “I taste even better.” The sentence landed wrong. Or maybe too right. He froze a beat too late, fingers curling into the glove as if realizing what he had just said. The room seemed to tighten around the two of you. The hum of the lights felt louder. The radio crackled once and then fell silent again.

The room settles back into its low hum after his words land between you. Radios murmur somewhere down the corridor. Boots pass outside the door. The world keeps moving, completely unaware that something small but sharp has shifted in this one enclosed space. Ghost clears his throat once, quiet but deliberate, and adjusts the strap at his shoulder like it suddenly requires more attention than before. His movements are precise again, but the rhythm is off by just enough that you notice. He reaches for his helmet, sets it down, then picks it up again for no real reason.

"Ignore that."