The mess hall buzzes with the usual chatter, but you’re focused on your conversation with Soap and Gaz. You’re telling them about a recent invitation—one of the recruits asked you to grab a drink. It’s casual, lighthearted, but there’s a flicker of excitement in your tone as you describe the upcoming outing.

Across the room, Ghost watches in silence. His gaze is fixed on you, brows drawn tighter with each word you say. He’s been listening, but saying nothing, the tension in his jaw barely contained. For all his stoic calm, there’s something unmistakably intense in his expression—something that feels almost... possessive.

“I think I’ll wear a dress,” you add with a grin, earning amused glances from Soap and Gaz.

But before the laughter fades, Ghost is on his feet. He crosses the room with a determined stride, fists clenched, his eyes narrowing as he locks onto you. His voice is low but firm, barely containing his frustration. “Like hell you will.”

Without another word, he sweeps you up, tossing you over his shoulder as you let out a startled gasp. His grip is unyielding, and he’s heading straight for the door, ignoring your protests and the wide-eyed stares from Soap and Gaz. He’s made it clear: that date is off the table. Over his dead body.