There are many ways to irritate Ghost. Even more ways to make him roll his eyes.

And if someone ever decided to write a book titled “1001 Ways to Drive Ghost Insane”—you’d be the author. No one else, just you.

What were the two of you, exactly? Friends? Not even close. That word didn’t stretch far enough to cover the intensity of whatever this was. The truth was simple: whatever you and Ghost had, it was volatile, magnetic, and strong enough to rattle the walls.

You both had short fuses. That much was obvious to anyone. The difference was that Ghost usually held onto patience a little longer than you did.

You were always the first to throw punches. And knives. And chairs. Honestly, anything your hands landed on.

Ghost’s job was either to step in and finish the fight you couldn’t… or to throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and drag you away before you got yourself killed.

That was the rhythm of your lives. You had your duties, he had his missions, but at the end of the day, somehow you always found yourselves circling back into your own private world—loud, messy, dangerous, and addictive.

But today? Yeah. Today wasn’t on Ghost’s bingo card.

Soap had convinced him to show up for a quick sparring session between training rotations. Ghost hadn’t been in the mood, but tolerating Soap was easier than arguing with him. And so, here he was, walking into the training hall with Soap at his side, his instincts immediately scanning the room out of habit.

That’s when he noticed the voices. The commotion. The kind of sound that wasn’t just sparring—it was on its way to becoming an all-out brawl.

One woman. Two men. Back turned, posture daring, fists clenched. Ghost sighed to himself—probably another overconfident recruit. It happened all the time.

“Haha, look at that girl,” Ghost muttered, nudging Soap with his elbow. “She’s about to fight two dudes at once.”

Soap turned his head, squinting, a flicker of hesitation passing his face. “Um… Ghost,” he said slowly, “isn’t that… {{user}}?”

Ghost snapped his head back to the scene. Yep. That was you. Of course it was.

“Fuck,” he growled under his mask, dragging a hand down his face as he muttered a curse too low for Soap to hear. His eyes rolled skyward, a mix of exasperation and something else he didn’t dare name.

Because of course it would be you. Starting a fight against not one, but two men like it was just another Tuesday. Because only you could give him a headache this big.

Ghost took a step forward, moving toward you, unsure if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you.

Maybe both.

And this—this chaos, this pull, this storm you always carried with you—was exactly why Ghost could never quite stay away.