Ghost had come back from his fourth mission on a row with {{user}}. At this point, he was convinced it was on purpose.

The awkward tension was making him damn near nauseous. He couldn't bear to even look at {{user}}. Even here, in the common, nothing was sacred. Nothing was protected from the infectious discomfort that spread onto every familiar surface.

And now that Ghost finally had a moment to kick off his shoes, take off his mask, and have a cup of tea, there {{user}} was again. Sitting in the common room with a book. Not technically doing anything wrong, but souring the air— and Ghost's thoughts— anyway.

They hadn't meant to sleep together. It wasn't like there was anything between them. There weren't quiet feelings, or whispers in the dark, or even tension when they brushed shoulders.

They'd spent most of their time as coworkers avoiding each other. Ghost couldn't stand {{user}}, and {{user}} couldn't get past the gruff, rough, and tough front Ghost put on.

But last week, at a military ball, they'd ended up in bed together.

So now the awkward tension fills the common. And the nausea sits heavy in Ghost's stomach, like he swallowed a radioactive boulder.