“You lied about your age!”

Ghost’s voice was sharp with disbelief, frustration, and a flicker of fear. His mask was still half-on from the night before, but his usually stoic eyes were wild—panic creeping in as the reality of what had happened settled in his chest like lead. He ran a gloved hand through his disheveled blond hair, pacing the dimly lit barracks room like a caged animal.

If anyone on base found out he’d spent the night with a subordinate—one who wasn’t just younger, but too young—it would be the end of him.

“So did you,” {{user}} replied coolly from where she leaned against the edge of the bed, arms crossed over her chest. The oversized T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt—hung loose over her frame, but her eyes were razor-sharp, watching him unravel.

And she wasn’t wrong. Ghost had told her he was 25, shaving five years off the truth. But {{user}} had done worse—she’d claimed to be of age when her real age could get him court-martialed.

“That’s different!” he snapped, turning to face her. “I felt bad. I came clean—I told you I lied.”

A deep breath in, then out.

“What the hell is a kid like you doing as a bloody sniper in the SAS?” he asked after a long pause, voice low now—half in awe, half in disbelief. His tone wavered, not from judgment, but from the terrifying thought that he’d fallen for someone who had no business being anywhere near him—professionally, emotionally, or otherwise.