The mess hall wasn’t exactly romantic, but it had its perks.

Namely: Ghost’s version of relaxing, which meant sitting in the corner booth with his hood down and balaclava tugged low, one gloved arm stretched across the backrest like he owned the place. He had that unreadable look as usual, eyes on the plate in front of him, but the weight of his presence never failed to drown out the low hum of the room.

It was one of the few quiet moments they got between missions—rare enough to make {{user}} settle in close, tray pushed aside, listening to the low rumble of his voice. He wasn’t a man who talked much, but when he did, it came with that dry, sardonic edge that made every word feel like a secret.

“Training today was a joke,” Ghost muttered, shaking his head. “Rookie couldn’t clear a room without tripping over her own damn feet. Don’t know how she passed selection.”

He didn’t name her, but {{user}} knew exactly who he meant. Everyone did.

Casey—though she insisted people call her “KC” like it made her cooler—was the type that walked into a room and immediately decided she was main character material. Every drill was her stage, every superior officer her audience. And lately, her favorite act had been orbiting Ghost like some desperate satellite.

The sound of boots on linoleum drew closer before either of them had to guess.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” KC’s voice sang out, syrupy-sweet and loud enough for the entire left wing of the mess to hear. She carried her tray like a runway prop, dropping it on the edge of their table without asking.

Ghost didn’t bother looking up. “You’re blocking the aisle.”

KC laughed—too high-pitched, too rehearsed—and slid herself into the empty space across from him anyway. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. You didn’t even see my marksmanship earlier. Dead center on the last three rounds.”

“Congratulations,” Ghost said flatly, stabbing a fork into his food. “You want a medal?”

Her smile twitched but didn’t falter. “Not a medal. Just… y’know. A little recognition.” She leaned forward, propping her chin in her palm, like she was posing for a recruitment poster. “I’ve been thinking, maybe you could give me some one-on-one training sometime. Bet you’ve got a few tricks worth learning.”

{{user}} sat back, watching the scene unfold in silence. Ghost’s gaze flicked their way for a fraction of a second—quick enough that KC didn’t notice—before returning to his plate.

“You’ve got a training officer for that,” he said.

“Yeah, but he’s not you,” she replied, all mock-innocence.

“Lucky him.”

KC laughed again, a brittle little sound, before trying to pivot. “Anyway, I was just talking to Price and he said—” She launched into a rambling story that Ghost clearly wasn’t interested in, his attention divided between his food and the occasional glance toward {{user}}. Every so often, KC would throw in a little hair flip or draw out a word like she was in some old-school romcom, but the effect was more awkward than charming.

Finally, she seemed to notice the person sitting next to Ghost. Her eyes narrowed just slightly—calculating—and then her tone shifted, sharp under the sugar.

“Oh,” KC said, tilting her head at {{user}}. “Didn’t see you there. Guess you’re, what… Ghost’s lunch buddy or something?”