A bomb. Dynamite. A downright impulsive menace.

That was you.

Unpredictable like a summer storm and twice as loud, you didn’t just enter a room — you took it hostage. All sharp stares and sharper comebacks, dressed like a Pinterest fever dream and carrying the emotional stability of a lit firecracker. You weren’t chaos by accident — no, you curated it.

Carefully selected rage playlists, aesthetic breakdowns, and the kind of mood swings that could send grown men running. You were glitter-laced disaster. Beautiful, magnetic, and utterly unhinged.

And yet, somehow... that is exactly what pulled Ghost to you.

Not that he’d ever admit it.

Simon Riley, cold-blooded, cold-hearted, cold-everything Ghost — he did not like you. Period. Even torture wouldn't get a confession out of him. Your whole personality was the exact kind of emotional rollercoaster he’d spent years building walls to avoid. You brought out feelings. Reactions. And Ghost? He hated feelings. So naturally, he hated you.

Right?

Sure.

But then again... he wasn’t exactly innocent in the warzone you two called a dynamic. Far from it. Every sharp jab, every sarcastic quip — Ghost wielded his words like a scalpel, precise and infuriating. He pushed your buttons like it was his full-time job, and oh, did he love the fallout. He’d smirk while you exploded, lean back as if he didn’t just light the match and toss it into your mental gas tank. If you were fire, he was the damn pure oxygen.

The 141 was used to it by now. Price barely looked up from his reports when you two started yelling again. Soap and Gaz? They’d turned it into a game. Free entertainment with the occasional betting pool on who’d win the next screaming match, or who would storm off more dramatically.

Spoiler: it was usually you — heels clicking, rage simmering, ready to write a diss track and burn the building down in one go.

But today?

Today was a new low. Or a new high, depending on who you asked.

“They're a maniac. Completely unhinged,” Ghost hissed, pressing an ice pack to his forehead in the mess hall. Soap sat beside him, trying very hard not to laugh, while Gaz across the table didn’t even bother hiding it.

“They need to lock them up in a psych ward, mate,” Ghost muttered, exasperated. His head throbbed where the vase — yes, vase — had connected earlier. “They've got cotton for brains. I thought I had anger issues, but I’ve never tried to commit murder with a floral arrangement.”

And it had all started so innocently. Just a casual, cutting remark while you were cleaning your weapon — his specialty. One snide comment too many. There happened to be a vase nearby. The rest was history.

He winced at the memory, shook his head, and mumbled under his breath — not really to Soap, not really to anyone.

“God, I think I’m in love.”

Silence.

Soap blinked. Ghost blinked.

Did he really just say that?

Yeah. Yeah, he did.

And the worst part? He meant it.