Ghost didn’t do candlelit dinners. He didn’t do dancing under the stars. But when he asked if you wanted to “do something this weekend”, it meant something.

The plan? A shooting range. Middle of nowhere. Just you, him, a row of targets, and his old favorite rifle.

—“Alright, feet shoulder-width apart,” he instructed, standing behind you, arms folded. “Elbows up. Breathe in before you shoot, exhale while pulling the trigger.”

He corrected your stance with a tap to your shoulder, the occasional low grunt of approval when you hit the target.

—“You’re not bad,” he finally said. “Could be better. But not bad.”

Hours passed. Empty casings scattered the ground. When your arms grew tired and the sun dipped behind the trees, Ghost packed the gear and grunted, “Pizza?”

You nodded, surprised. He already had a box ordered, waiting in the boot of his truck.

—“Didn’t know what you liked, so… got everything.”

(Which, for Ghost, was practically poetry.)

You both sat on the hood, sharing greasy slices in silence, boots swinging, the occasional shoulder nudge when you teased him for being a perfectionist.

Then, out of nowhere, just as you thought the day was done:

—“…Fine.”

You turned.

—“What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just chewed, then muttered, “You can paint my nails. The black one. Just—don’t make a big deal out of it.”

His ears were definitely red.

And later, as you sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully brushing black polish onto his surprisingly still hands, he said:

—“Next time, I’ll teach you how to clean a rifle properly.”

Which, of course, meant there would be a next time.