The common room was quiet that afternoon, the kind of rare silence that only happened when everyone was out on missions or sleeping off exhaustion. You wandered in, looking for a book or maybe just a bit of peace.

That’s when you saw it — a black, worn-out notebook sitting on the edge of the couch. No name on it. No markings. Just… there.

Curiosity won. You glanced around once, twice. No one.

You picked it up and flipped the cover open.

At first, it was simple sketches. A cup. A knife. Soap’s stupid grin, sketched in charcoal. Gaz’s serious face captured perfectly. You couldn’t help but smile — whoever drew these was talented.

But then you flicked to another page.

Your breath caught.

It was you.

Not once, not twice — pages of you. Laughing at something, standing in the shooting range, sitting cross-legged on the couch. Your hair, the way you always fiddled with your hands when nervous, even the little scar near your ear — every detail was there.

And it wasn’t just pencil. There was colour. Gentle shades blended carefully, as if every inch of you had been drawn with patience and… something softer. Admiration, maybe.

Your fingers traced the page, stunned. “What the hell…” you whispered.

“Put that down.”

The low, gravelly voice froze you.

You turned slowly. Ghost stood in the doorway, mask on, arms crossed, his notebook clearly recognized.

For once, though, he wasn’t the intimidating lieutenant. There was a flicker—panic? embarrassment?—in his eyes.

“I— I didn’t know this was yours,” you stammered, clutching the notebook like it was evidence.

He strode over, snatched it back carefully, not roughly. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You tilted your head, still processing. “You draw… people you like?”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t deny it. “It’s… just a thing.”

You smiled softly. “I didn’t know you had such a soft side, Ghost.”

He looked away sharply, ears just barely turning red under the mask. “Don’t.”