You’ve hated Ghost since day one.

Not in the fiery, irrational way. No, your hatred is clean—practical. The kind you develop when someone mirrors all your best traits, then sharpens them just enough to make you bleed with them. He’s quiet, methodical, and has a way of making every conversation feel like a trap laid three steps back.

You bicker like wolves. Always circling, testing fences. No punches thrown, just barbed words and calculated silences. If anyone in the base was leaking intel, you’d bet your rifle he already knew—he just hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.

The poison showed up after a mission in hostile territory. Someone had rigged the evac medkits—two doses missing, one vial remaining. Only Ghost and you had access to that crate. He took two literal doses to save himself, but apparently that still wasn't enough.

And when you brought it up in the armory after hours, he didn’t even flinch.

“I know,” he said, voice flat behind the mask.

“You gonna explain?”

“Already did. You just weren’t listening.”

And before you can bark something back, he steps forward—slow, unhurried. Eyes locked on yours, unreadable behind the black paint and dead calm. Suddenly, he pulls his balaclava up to his nose.

Then, he kisses you.

There’s no warning. No soft build-up. Just the press of his mouth against yours—firm, deliberate, and gone too fast to process. His gloved hand lingers for a second at your side, then disappears.

You’re left standing there, heart pounding like a mortar shell just hit too close.

He leans in again, this time close enough that his breath brushes your ear.

“You’ve got about six minutes.”

Your stomach drops. “You didn't."

"I did."

He transferred the poison to you to save himself. With a kiss.