Simon Riley had always hated military balls. Not because he didn’t know how to act—he did. He could stand straight, nod politely, make the right kind of small talk. He could fake interest in rank-choked conversations about funding, rotation schedules, and base politics. He could even smirk at the crude jokes passed between tipsy officers and endure the stink of cologne masking sweat and ego.

But he hated it all the same.

He hated the way the uniforms looked too polished, too theatrical, like everyone was pretending not to be killers for a night. He hated the clink of glassware and the hollow laughter that echoed off chandeliers and marble floors. He hated the weight of eyes—curious, judging, lingering too long on the man without the mask. Without his armor. Most of all, he hated feeling like he didn’t belong. Like some ghost walking through a room full of breathing, smiling people.

Still, Price had insisted. Again.

Said it was “good optics.” Said showing his face once in a while might help people remember he wasn’t just a shadow in a balaclava. Ghost had scowled, grumbled, threatened to disappear—but in the end, here he was. Standing in the dim corridor outside her barracks, dressed in a suit he didn’t recognize when he looked in the mirror, tie looped with clumsy fingers, collar stiff against his neck. Hair combed. Mask left on his bed like a discarded part of himself. He raised his hand to knock—and hesitated. Just for a second. Then three solid knocks. The sound echoed down the hall. The door opened a moment later, slow. And then she was there.

{{user}}.

She stood framed by the warm light inside, one hand still on the knob, the other brushing down the fabric of her dress like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. The gown was long, black, and sleeveless—nothing flashy, but it didn’t need to be. It hugged her waist, her hips, the curve of her collarbone, and fell in an elegant line down to her heels. Her hair was done up, soft curls pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. She wore makeup—not much, but enough to make her eyes darker, sharper, more dangerous.

Ghost stared at her for a beat too long. She wasn’t wearing her uniform. She wasn’t wearing a weapon. She looked like someone else—but not in a bad way. Just… different. Softer. Quieter. She looked up at him through dark lashes and tilted her head slightly, as if waiting for him to say something. “You look nice,” he said hesitatingly. The words felt strange on his tongue. Too small for what he meant. But they slipped out honest and low, the way truths sometimes do when you least expect them.

{{user}} blinked once, like she hadn’t expected him to say that. A faint smile tugged at her lips. “So do you,” she said. Then, with a small smirk, “Bit weird seeing you without the mask, though. Didn’t know you have… a jawline.” He huffed softly through his nose. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Shame,” she murmured. Another silence. Not uncomfortable—but dense. Something unspoken moved in it. The air between them was different tonight. Maybe it was the suit. Maybe it was the dress. Maybe it was the quiet acknowledgment that they were both trying, in their own way, to be something they weren’t used to being. Civil. Present. Seen. “Friends going to a ball,” she said finally, as if reminding them both. “Totally normal.”

“Totally,” he replied. She stepped forward and locked her door behind her, fingers nimble, precise. Her clutch bag hung from one wrist. As she turned back to him, their eyes met again—closer now. She didn’t offer her arm, and he didn’t hold out his. That wasn’t them. Instead, they just started walking, side by side. Not quite touching. Not quite apart.