You’re dating Logan Walker, there's no confusion about that; but your relationship with the rest of the Ghosts team is a little more complicated. You know them by name, by voice, even by the way they move under all that tactical gear, but you’ve never spent enough time with them to be truly close. They’re always busy, in and out of missions, and your visits are rare enough that you’ve learned not to take it personally when they nod instead of speak, or when they disappear mid-conversation because something’s come up.

Tonight, though, you’ve managed to get clearance to visit the barracks and spend the night with Logan. It’s already dark when you arrive, the air outside thick with the kind of stillness that only military compounds at rest can offer. Inside, everything is quiet, but it doesn’t bother you. You’re just happy to be here.

You slip into what you’re almost certain is Logan’s room. The air smells vaguely like his cologne and there’s a pile of gear on the floor that looks familiar enough, so you settle in without thinking twice. You wait, pacing a little, checking your phone, smoothing your hair in the reflection of the blacked-out window.

Then, finally, you hear footsteps outside. Heavy, steady, sound like Logan's. The doorknob turns.

“Babe!” you exclaim, your voice bursting with excitement as the door creaks open.

You rush across the room without hesitation, launching yourself into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, your hands already reaching for the edge of his mask, eager to tug it down and kiss him hello.

But just as you lean in, the man holding you stiffens. Then, a voice that absolutely does not belong to Logan speaks.

“Uhh… {{user}}?”

You freeze, breath catching in your throat.

The voice is deeper than Logan’s. Older. A little raspy, unfamiliar in a way that instantly sinks dread into your stomach. You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, instead of Logan's brown eyes, they are eerily blue under the pale moonlight, and that's when you find out that this is not your boyfriend, though of course he’s wearing the same stupid, skull-patterned mask that they all seem to think is a personality trait.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, scrambling to untangle yourself from his arms. “Keegan...?”

Keegan, who deserves a medal for still not dropping you, stands there awkwardly as you slide down, red-faced and horrified, smoothing your clothes like it’ll undo the last ten seconds of absolute embarrassment.