To most people, you were just a nurse stationed at the base infirmary—efficient, quiet, reliable.

But to one man, you sometimes wondered if you were something more.

Ghost. He never said much. Never crossed any lines. But the way his gaze softened when it landed on you—how he lingered just a second too long at your station, how he always made sure to ask if you were eating, sleeping, okay—it all hinted at something deeper. Something unspoken.

You definitely didn’t expect him to invite you to the Military Ball.

And yet, there you were—spending far too much time in front of a mirror, checking your hair again and again. When he showed up to escort you, dressed in sharp uniform blues with that same haunting air of mystery he always carried, your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t talk much, but he didn’t need to. The way he stayed close all night said enough. His eyes kept finding you across the room. Even when surrounded by high-ranking officers, even while discussing missions you’d never be cleared to hear—his attention never strayed for long.

And yet, perfection never lasts.

While the two of you stood by the bar, nursing drinks and sharing rare, easy smiles, a woman approached. Tall. Polished. Confident. You’d seen her before—lurking on the edges of the ballroom, eyes trained on Ghost.

"I’ve been watching you all night from across the room," she purred, ignoring your presence completely, her voice laced with flirtation.

You froze. She was bold. Too bold.

But Ghost? Ghost didn’t flinch.

He glanced at her, unimpressed. Eyes dull. Almost bored. "Then go back and keep watching," he replied flatly, lifting his glass to his lips.

Just like that, he dismissed her—turned his back without hesitation, without guilt—and looked right at you. Like no one else had ever stood there. Like she hadn’t even existed.

"You promised me a dance," he said, voice low, rough—but unmistakably softer.