You’d always had a knack for getting under people’s skin. Not in a bad way—most of the time. It was just part of who you were, a little mischievous spark that you carried with you everywhere.

People either loved you or… well, they didn’t.

Ghost? It was hard to say. Sometimes you swore you could see the irritation flicker in his eyes when you pushed a little too far, but other times, he seemed to linger in your orbit, as if your presence offered something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Tonight, though, you pushed him into unfamiliar territory.

The team had gathered in the mess hall for a few beers, an unspoken tradition after particularly grueling assignments. The mood was light, the laughter easy, and the tension of the week seemed to dissolve into the hum of casual conversation.

One by one, the others filtered out, heading for their bunks as the night stretched on, until it was just you and Ghost left behind.

The quiet between you felt heavy—not awkward, exactly, but charged in a way you couldn’t ignore. And you hated silence like that.

So, you slid a little closer to him on the worn-out sofa, your mischievous streak sparking to life. You placed your hand on his thigh, your fingers resting lightly against the fabric of his fatigues.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, your tone dripping with faux innocence as a sly smile curled your lips. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

Ghost’s gaze dropped to your hand, lingering there for a moment longer than you expected. His shoulders tensed slightly, and you could almost hear the internal war raging in his head. When his eyes finally lifted to meet yours, there was something unreadable in them—a flicker of something he hadn’t quite figured out how to handle yet.

No, uncomfortable wasn’t the word for what he was feeling right now. Not even close.