{{user}} had always been the type to slip into a room and disappear into the background. No loud greetings, no needless chatter. She spoke when it mattered, worked hard, and didn’t need a spotlight. In Task Force 141, where personalities were often larger than life, her stillness could’ve made her invisible. But not to Ghost. He’d noticed her the first week she joined, sharp eyes, sharp mind, no tolerance for wasting breath. In a team that thrived on banter, she matched his own brand of quiet efficiency. They didn’t need to talk much to work well together, but when they did, their words were short, dry, and often laced with a humor that only the two of them seemed to catch.

She’d been in the team just under a year, but in that time they’d fallen into a rhythm, watching each other’s backs on missions, taking late-night shifts in silence, swapping the occasional gruff comment over coffee. Ghost liked that she never pushed to know more about him than he was willing to share. {{user}}, in turn, appreciated that he didn’t try to drag her into the noisy chaos the others thrived in.

So it didn’t surprise him that she hadn’t mentioned her birthday to anyone.

The only reason he found out was pure accident, signing off paperwork in his quarters, flipping through mission reports. Her medical file from the last op had been attached, a small note from the medic about a minor injury she’d taken to the shoulder. Ghost skimmed past it until his eyes caught a single date at the top. Her date of birth. Tomorrow. He sat back in his chair for a moment, staring at the page. She hadn’t told him. Hadn’t told anyone, most likely because she didn’t want the fuss. But he also knew that if the day passed with zero acknowledgement, she’d feel it, whether she admitted it or not.

The thought stuck with him through the next morning’s brief and into the afternoon. He found himself glancing toward her in the common area, where she sat quietly with a cup of tea, scrolling through mission notes. No one around her had the slightest idea. By the time evening rolled in, he’d made up his mind. It wouldn’t be a party, wouldn’t be noisy or crowded. Just something small. Something that said he’d noticed. The base commissary had been nearly empty when he went looking. He’d grabbed the only cupcake worth eating and a decent bottle of whiskey from his own stash, figuring both would be more her style than a wrapped present. When the halls had gone quiet and the team scattered for the night, he finally made his way toward her barrack room.

Her door was near the end of the hall, half-hidden in shadow. He stopped in front of it, pausing for a moment, listening. No music, no voices, just the faint hum of the heater inside. He knocked once, the sound sharp in the quiet. When she opened the door, she was barefoot, wearing loose pajama pants and an oversized shirt, her hair in a messy bun that had clearly been tied up without a mirror. She froze when she saw him, whiskey in one hand, cupcake with a single candle in the other. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing here?” He lifted the bottle slightly. “Figured you could use some company on your special day.” Her brow furrowed. “How do you even know it’s my—”

“Paperwork,” he cut in. As a wave of silence hit, he tilted the bottle slightly. “So, am I coming in, or do I just leave this here and hope you don’t drink it all at once?” That got the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Wordlessly, she stepped aside, opening the door wider. The room was small and dim, the kind of space where voices seemed to sit heavy in the air. She took the cupcake from him carefully, as if it might fall apart in her hands, then set it down on the desk. “Thank you, Ghost.”