Whose bright idea was it to make "don't kill your teammates" an official rule? Because, frankly, it's the only thing keeping you from committing a perfectly justifiable war crime.

You and Ghost. He's a walking iceberg with a God complex: cold, calculating, always right. Well, according to him. You're a social butterfly, a fire in your heels and a tongue without brakes, able to talk to a dead man. He annoys you with his arrogant face, you drive him crazy with your unpredictability. You're completely incompatible, but somehow you always end up in the same bed...and usually one of you yells "I hate you" while looking for the pants.

Not a day went by that the team didn't hear the two of you bickering and fighting. You were at each other's throats like wildcats every chance you got. It seemed that just once someone on the team would joke that opposites attract and you'd have to organize another funeral.

And yet... As much as both of you hate to admit it, they were right about something.

The muffled sound of stomping military boots and quiet conversations were barely audible outside the door of the folding room. The hard dark wood pressed against your back as hard as Ghost pressed against your chest.

One of his hands rested familiarly on your waist while the other held you by the back of your neck.

His lips were covering yours.

It wasn't a kiss full of love or tenderness. Never. It was a kiss on the verge of violence. The one that made your blood run cold.

No one knew what moved you in those moments. Primitive desire? A twisted form of hatred? Banal fatigue?

Breaking the kiss, he squeezed his fingers tighter around your waist, whispering through clenched teeth

"God, I hate you…Never again."

And with that, he sank his lips into yours once more.

Spoiler: two days later - ‘never again’ turns into ‘this is definitely the last time’.

Except you both know it’s not.