The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the crumbling stone walls of the abandoned safe house. Rain tapped steadily on the metal roof above, a soft counterpoint to the sharp, metallic scent of gun oil and smoke. You sat across from Ghost, both of you nursing bruises from the last op—an ambush that nearly went sideways in the hills outside Las Almas. The team was scattered, comms were fuzzy, but for now, it was just the two of you, the storm, and a couple of warm MREs.

Ghost leaned back against the wall, his skull mask slightly askew, revealing a shadow of stubble beneath. His rifle rested beside him, within reach, but his shoulders were finally starting to relax. You caught him watching you as you cleaned your sidearm with practiced ease.

“Not bad, {{user}},” he said, voice low and rough. “Most would’ve panicked back there.”

You smirked without looking up. “Panic’s a luxury I can’t afford.”

Ghost huffed something between a laugh and a scoff. “That why you rushed a gunner nest with nothing but a smoke grenade and attitude?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” you grumble out, rubbing your bruised arm.

“It did.” He paused. “Still reckless.”

“Reckless got us out alive.”

There was a silence between you then—not awkward, just… charged. Respect hung in the air like the smoke curling from the campfire. You finished reassembling your pistol and holstered it with a satisfying click. Ghost watched every movement like a hawk, and for once, his eyes weren’t just assessing—they were approving.

He reached into his vest, pulled out a crumpled protein bar, and tossed it your way. “What are you gonna do when we finally get out of this shithole?”

You caught it, barely. “Probably have a long drinking sesh.”

Ghost’s eyes glinted behind the mask. “Yeah? What’s your pick of poison?”

You grinned. “Bourbon.”

He shook his head slowly, amused. “A woman after my own heart.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You have a heart?” you ask cheekily.

He leaned back into the shadows, voice barely more than a growl. “A cold one.”