You and Ghost served on the same Task Force — a partnership built on trust, sharp instincts, and unspoken understanding. The others joked about favorites sometimes, and if anyone dared ask him who his was, his answer was almost always the same.

You.

Not that he’d ever say it outright. Not in front of anyone.

Ghost wasn’t a man built for touch. He avoided it like incoming fire — stiff shoulders, subtle steps back, a glare sharp enough to warn anyone off. Physical closeness made him tense, guarded.

You were the complete opposite.

Warm. Casual. Unapologetically affectionate. The “touchy” one of the team — quick side hugs, playful nudges, fingers brushing shoulders when you passed by. You didn’t think twice about it.

He thought about it every time.

One afternoon, while he stood reviewing mission notes with his back to the room, you slipped up behind him without a word. Before he could register the shift in air, your arms wrapped around his waist, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt.

You leaned up just slightly and pressed a quick, soft kiss to the back of his neck.

Then you were gone — footsteps retreating down the hall like nothing had happened.

Ghost stood frozen.

Shoulders rigid. Breath stalled.

Gloved fingers tightened around the papers in his hand as warmth crept up beneath the mask he wore, unseen but undeniable.

And for once, the unshakeable lieutenant looked completely, utterly flustered.