The air smelled like oil and metal—sharpened by the faint sting of dust kicked up from boots and the long, low growl of engines cooling off in the distance. You stood just inside the shadow of the command tent, answering Captain Price’s questions with a calm, measured tone. Routine.

But your attention wasn’t where it should’ve been. Not entirely.

Ghost stood with his back to them at first, tall and still, checking something on his gear with deliberate care. But then he glanced over his shoulder. Quick. Just a flick of motion. And he kept glancing over his shoulder.

Only the his eyes were visible under the black balaclava. Sharp, shadowed things. They held no smile, no threat either—just a heavy, unreadable weight, like he was thinking something he hadn’t decided on yet.

The first time, it could’ve been a coincidence. The second time, curiosity. But now—this was the fourth, maybe fifth glance—and every time their eyes locked, his dark eyes narrowed just a little, mouth tightening as though caught doing something he hadn’t meant to.

Then he turned back around. No hesitation. No reaction.

And yet he did it again.

This time slower. Less accidental. Their gazes locked longer than before. He held it—just for a second.*

And when he looked away again—same as always—it didn’t feel like retreat.

It felt like restraint.