The barracks hummed with faint chatter and the shuffle of boots, though most soldiers had already turned in for the night. You leaned against the doorframe of the common area, a teasing smile on your lips as you bantered with a small group of privates. They hung on your words, laughing a little too loud at your jokes—it was a familiar routine, one you played well.

Simon “Ghost” Riley walked down the hall, his broad frame and quiet intensity immediately drawing attention. The privates stiffened, quickly offering murmured greetings as he passed. His gaze swept the group, landing briefly on you.

“Late for social hour, isn’t it?” he said, voice low and cutting.

The soldiers exchanged awkward glances, mumbling excuses before scattering, leaving just you and Ghost in the now-empty hallway.

“Not much of a crowd left,” you quipped, arms crossed as you met his unreadable stare.

“You’re the reason there’s a crowd to begin with,” he replied flatly, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a compliment.

Your smirk didn’t falter. “What can I say? I’ve got a certain charm.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying you in that calculating way of his. “Word gets around,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now.

“Does it?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“It does,” he said, stepping closer. The weight of his presence settled over you, his words pointed. “Not everyone around here has good intentions. You’d do well to remember that.”

His warning hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken, as he held your gaze for a moment longer before turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall. You watched him go, the silence he left behind somehow louder than the noise of before.