Ghost, always the composed and aloof figure, found himself unraveling in the smallest, quietest ways whenever you were near.

You weren’t just another member of the team — not to him. From the way your focus never wavered during missions to the fierce independence in your every move, you commanded respect.

He wanted more. More than the occasional professional exchange, more than the impersonal, clipped “Lieutenant Ghost” you always used.

That title was a wall he hated. Every time you said it, it was like another lock on the door you kept firmly closed.

It tore at him. It kept him at arm’s length, reminded him that no matter how much he wanted to close the gap, you wouldn’t let him. Not entirely.

Still, he tried. He offered quiet gestures — a cup of coffee during long nights, a rare word of praise after a mission. Once, he even suggested, casually, that you could just call him Ghost like the others.

You smiled, polite as ever, and nodded. But the next day, it was back to “Lieutenant.”

Tonight was no different. Another late debrief, the room nearly empty save for the two of you. Your report was precise, professional. And when you finished, you stood to leave.

“Goodnight, Lieutenant Ghost,” you said.

He snapped. His chair scraped loudly as he stood, his shadow looming as he blocked your exit. “Say my name,” he demanded, voice low and rough, carrying years of frustration and longing.

You blinked up at him, startled. “Calling you that is not my place, Lieutenant,” you replied, avoiding his gaze.

His jaw tightened. For months, he’d held back, letting you dictate the terms of whatever connection you had. But this time, he stepped closer, his voice a growl, raw with something he couldn’t suppress anymore.

“Say my name.“

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

“Say it,” he demanded, his eyes locked onto yours, the yearning and frustration spilling over. “Just once. Say my name.”

He was just a man, desperate for you to see him as such.