The base was quiet, the low hum of ventilation mixing with the occasional clang from the hangar. Most of the 141 were off doing their own thing—cleaning kit, catching a nap, or killing time at the range.

Ghost had just signed off on yet another delivery from the quartermaster. He didn’t need to check the label to know who it was for—she was the only one who ever had something new waiting when they came back from deployment.

Hooking the plain cardboard box under one arm, he made his way to her quarters. Knocking wasn’t really a thing among the 141, so he pushed the door open without ceremony.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The room was a minefield of open boxes and crumpled packing paper. Dresses—soft, silky, and in colours that looked wildly out of place in the sterile grey barracks—were draped over the chair, spilling out of a half-zipped garment bag.

And there she was, in the middle of it all, halfway into a pastel sundress, one arm through the strap and the other frozen mid-motion. Her eyes went wide at the sight of him in the doorway.

“Well,” Ghost said, his tone unreadable behind the mask. “That explains the packages.”

She didn’t answer, her face heating, suddenly all too aware she wasn’t in her usual fatigues and combat boots.

Ghost set the box down carefully, the faintest crinkle at the corners of his eyes betraying amusement. “Not exactly the tomboy I thought I knew.” His voice carried quiet surprise, but no malice.

Her jaw tightened. “Not a word to the others.”

He gave a low, muffled chuckle. “Your secret’s safe… for a price.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what’s that?”

Ghost turned toward the door. “I want to see the red one next.”