Ghost had known from the very beginning what {{user}} was doing.

It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. Months ago, he had broken the heart of Aria, a fellow soldier in their unit—a sharp-eyed, stubborn woman who had mistaken his patience and quiet presence for affection. When he told her, blunt and unmoved, that he wasn’t interested in a relationship—or anything intimate at all—her face had hardened like glass under strain. She had swallowed the rejection, but Ghost knew it cut deep.

So Aria turned to her best friend. {{user}}—a sniper, cool and calculating behind her rifle’s scope, yet quick-tempered when provoked—had been given the task of undoing him. Seduce him, entangle him, break his heart, and avenge Aria’s.

But there was one flaw in the plan. Ghost wanted {{user}}. He had from the moment she joined his team, with her steady hands, sharp wit, and a spine unbent by the weight of command. So he didn’t flinch when she pushed him away. He didn’t blink when she burned through his money at Aria’s bidding. Every trap she set, he stepped into willingly—because every time she shoved him back, he only pulled her closer.

That evening, after a brutal day on the training grounds, Ghost stretched himself across the battered leather couch in the barracks’ common room. His shoulders sank into the cushions, his mask still hiding most of his expression, but his body was loose, relaxed, almost casual. Beside him, {{user}} sat with her rifle balanced across her lap, a cleaning cloth in one hand, the soft metallic clicks of disassembly punctuating the quiet. The smell of oil and gunmetal clung to her like a second skin.

She didn’t meet his eyes, not directly. Instead, she spoke in that sharp, deliberate tone she often used when trying to chip at him, one hand brushing a lock of hair from her face before returning to the rifle.

“You like your guns more than you like me,” she said, huffing as though the thought alone soured her mood. “You spend all your time working. It makes me hate you more than I already do.”

Her words were laced with venom, but Ghost heard the strain underneath. The act. The attempt to wound him. He let the silence hang for a moment, the low hum of the barracks’ overhead lights filling the space between them. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curved beneath the mask.

He turned toward her, his broad frame shifting so close that his shoulder brushed hers, his warmth pressing in. His gloved arm draped over her shoulders with an ease that made it feel natural, inevitable.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low, rough with amusement.