The first time he met you, Ghost thought you were lost.

Too cheerful. Too warm. Your lanyard sat crooked across your chest as you introduced yourself in the hallway with a smile so bright it made his temple twitch. "I'm the new intel analyst for the 141," you'd chirped, extending a hand. Your nails were painted in a glitter polish. You had matching glitter on your eyelids. His brain short-circuited.

Ghost stared. Didn’t move. Then he grunted. A low, unimpressed sound, and turned without a word, thinking someone was playing a joke.

But you weren’t a joke. You were damn good.

Your reports were sharp, your briefings tighter than his jaw after a recon op. You asked the right questions. You flagged risks before they even hit satellite. And you did it all with that sunshiney aura, as if your optimism was bulletproof.

It absolutely grated him.

You hummed while highlighting terrain maps. Left color-coded sticky tabs on his mission folders with things like “Careful, love, this area’s spicy!” or “Tell Soap he owes me a latte.” And worst of all, you smiled every time he glared.

He was going to lose his mind.

But then came the briefing.

The room was crowded, all elbows and clipped voices. A major op was underway, and command wasn’t exactly thrilled with the latest satellite feed findings — the ones you had presented. You stood at the front, flanked by him and Laswell, going through the details with your usual poise, until one of the old brass across the table let out a scoff.

“Maybe if the intelligence wasn’t filtered through lip gloss and a Pinterest board, we’d have actionable results.”

The room fell into a sharp, breathless silence.

You blinked once. Smiled, just barely, and turned back to the screen like it didn’t gut you. As if you hadn’t just been publicly dismissed by someone who had your career in their palm.

Ghost then spoke, turning his gaze toward the man slowly, voice deceptively calm. “If ignorance is bliss, you must be bloody euphoric, sir.”

A murmur spread through the room like electricity. The brass went red. Laswell’s brows lifted, amused but tight-lipped.

He didn’t care. His gaze turned back to you, on the faint tremble in your fingers as you gripped your tablet tighter. “You were sayin’?” he said coolly, tipping his head toward the screen.

You nodded. Trying your best to be composed, professional. But when you turned the next slide, your lips twitched—just for a second.

Later, in the hallway, you caught up with him quietly. “Appreciate the backup, Lieutenant.”

He didn’t look at you. Just adjusted his gloves.

“Don’t flatter yourself, luv. I just don’t like idiots talkin’ outta turn.”

But he glanced back… and you had that faint smile anyway.