Ghost didn’t understand her—{{user}}.

Didn’t understand why she flirted with him so bloody much.

It wasn’t teasing that rolled off her tongue—it was warmth, charm, an ease that made his skin crawl and his chest tighten all the same. Every time she threw him one of those bright smiles, it felt like she was aiming straight for the cracks in his armor.

Why?

Why waste that energy on him—a man hidden behind a skull mask, stitched together with anger and scars? A man who hadn’t known how to smile without it feeling like a lie for years?

It made no sense.

So he told himself it was a joke. That she was only winding him up for the reaction. Most people didn’t dare, but she was 141—sharp, fearless, and far too clever not to know what she was doing. He told himself she liked the challenge, not the man.

Still, it got under his skin.

Now she stood in front of him in the hangar’s dim light, the smell of oil and gunmetal thick in the air. The late afternoon sun cut through the high windows, painting gold lines over her gear, her rifle slung across her shoulder. Her hair—what he could see of it under the tactical cap—caught the light as she tilted her head, eyes glinting like she was seeing right through him.

He was trying to brief her. He was. The mission outline was clear in his mind—recon from the ridge, overwatch on the convoy—but she made it bloody difficult to focus.

“Yes, sir,” {{user}} said, half-smiling as she adjusted the strap on her rifle. The corner of her mouth tugged up in that teasing way that made him forget what came after cover fire and extraction point.

Her gaze didn’t stay still. It moved—up his arms, over the plate carrier, tracing the lines of the mask as if she were memorizing the shape of it. He could feel it, like heat crawling under the fabric.

Ghost shifted his weight, arms folding. The movement was meant to be casual, but his shoulders felt too tight, his heartbeat too loud in the quiet.

“What part of ‘mission briefing’ sounds like ‘flirt session’ to you, {{user}}?"