Ghost had long suspected that a certain sniper had her sights set on him—and not just through her scope. It wasn’t difficult to tell. The way {{user}}’s eyes lingered on him during briefings, how her lips curled into a smirk at his driest quips, or how effortlessly she volleyed back his flirtations made it obvious. But what really got under his skin—what stuck with him long after missions ended—was her physical tell: the hitch in her breath when he leaned in close, the flush that bloomed on her cheeks when he teased her, and the fire in her gaze when he pushed her limits during sparring. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was electric.

She never called him "Ghost" like the others. To her, he was Bullet—a nod to his precision and lethality. It made his chest tighten every time she said it.

He’d catch her in the hallway and tilt his head in a casual nod, voice rough with restrained fondness.

"What’s up, {{user}}?"

She never missed a beat.

"What’s up, Bullet?"

And every damn time, a boyish grin would tug at his lips beneath the balaclava. His heart? Gone. Pathetic, really—but he didn't care.

But when the new rookie, Jenna, tried the same trick?

"Hey, Bullet," she’d chirp, all too pleased with herself as he walked into the mess hall.

He didn’t even glance at her.

"It’s Ghost to you," he said flatly, the edge in his voice unmistakable.

Then, turning to {{user}}, that same voice melted into something softer, teasing.

"So... a little birdie told me you’ve got a thing for me..."