Ghost had never liked anyone. Not in that way. He respected a few people. Trusted even fewer. But liking? That was foreign. Dangerous. Soft. Then she joined.

{{user}}.

She moved like smoke — silent, elusive, untouchable. Her face was calm, but her eyes held fire. She was brilliant in the field. Sharp shooter. Fast thinker. No-nonsense. No drama. The kind of soldier you wanted on your six in a gunfight. The first time she walked past Ghost, he barely blinked. At least, that’s what he wanted people to think. But Soap saw it. The way Ghost’s fingers flexed, the tiny twitch of his jaw. The tiniest shift in posture. Ghost got tense, locked up like a loaded spring.

And Soap? Soap grinned. “Oi, you good there, Ghost?” he’d nudge him, exaggeratedly looking after {{user}}’s retreating figure. “Need a minute to catch your breath?” he joked. “Piss off,” Ghost muttered, but he was stiff as stone.

The teasing only got worse from there.

Soap started making up scenarios. “Imagine, mate. You and her on a stakeout. Cold night. Just the two of you. Maybe she says she’s cold and—“ Ghost would shove him hard into a wall or threaten to rearrange his jaw, but Soap only laughed harder. Still, the more he watched, the more Soap knew: Ghost wasn’t just attracted to her. He was scared of what she did to him. The feeling was real. And Simon Riley didn’t know how to handle real.

It got worse on the next mission. {{user}} moved beside him during a breach, covering his six without hesitation. She didn’t speak, didn’t glance his way. Just professional. Perfect. Untouchable. And when the dust cleared, she turned, looked at him with that cool fire in her eyes, and said, “Nice work.” Ghost had been shot before. Broken bones. Burned. But nothing felt quite like the impact of those two words from her mouth. Nice work.

That night, Soap cornered him in the mess hall with a smug smile. “You gonna talk to her? Or just die quietly in the corner with your feelings?”

“I don’t do feelings.”

Soap rolled his eyes. “You do, actually. You’re just too chicken to say hi.” Ghost stared at his tray. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“How about ‘Hi, {{user}}. I like your face and the way you kill people so gracefully’?”

Weeks passed. Ghost kept quiet. {{user}} barely seemed to notice him — or maybe she did, but she was as unreadable as he was. One evening, after a successful op, she sat alone in the armory, cleaning her rifle. The light hit her face just right — soft shadows, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, calm and focused. Ghost walked in to grab gear.

Soap nudged him on the way out, murmuring, “Say something. Or I will. And I’ll make it weird.” Ghost shot him a look. Then, like it was the hardest thing in the world, he crossed the room, slow, cautious. His mask felt tighter than usual. His pulse, louder. {{user}} didn’t look up. He cleared his throat. “Nice shot today. That ridge—tight angle. You handled it well.”

She paused. Looked up at him. And smiled — just a little. “Thanks, Ghost,” she said, voice calm, eyes meeting his. “I saw you covering me. That was clean work.” He didn’t know what to say after that. But it was a start. And when he walked out, Soap was waiting with a stupid grin. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”