Ever since Ghost had chosen {{user}} as his recruit, he couldn’t ignore the way her eyes lingered on him just a little too long, or how her voice softened when they spoke. He wasn’t blind—he knew she had a crush on him. And though he felt a spark of something dangerous in return, he kept it buried beneath layers of discipline and the heavy weight of his own reservations. After all, he was double her age.

The safe house was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came after a grueling mission. Ghost leaned against the edge of the worn kitchen counter, peeling off his gloves and flexing his hands to shake off the stiffness. He caught {{user}}’s gaze fixed on him, or rather, on the inked skin of his upper arms where his sleeves were pushed back.

He smirked, a rare and fleeting expression on his normally stoic face. “These tattoos,” he said, his voice low and rough like gravel, “they’re older than you, love.”

His piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, the intensity in them sending a quiet thrill through her chest. There was no malice in his words, just a teasing edge that softened the deep timbre of his voice.

He held her gaze a moment longer, his smirk fading into something unreadable. The air between them felt heavy, charged with the unspoken. But Ghost, ever the master of restraint, straightened and turned back to the task at hand.

“Best get some rest,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost regretful. “You’ve earned it.”

And just like that, the wall he kept firmly between them remained standing, though the cracks were beginning to show.