You’ve been working with Ghost for nearly a year now, and you still can’t make heads or tails of him. No, seriously—you’ve never met anyone so guarded, so flat-out unwilling to speak about himself. Anytime you bring up something even remotely personal—like you would with anyone else—he either ignores it, shuts it down, or gives you the vaguest answer imaginable.

How does he do it?

Of course, you’ve read his file. You even admitted as much to him—better he heard it from you than through someone else later. Curiosity had gotten the better of you, so you’d asked Price about him. That conversation hadn’t gone far; Price had been reluctant, his tone serious, like he wanted to be sure you understood who you were asking about. The file itself had been just as unhelpful: barebones. Simon Riley. Early to mid-thirties. Born in Manchester. SAS, covert ops specialist.

And that was about it. No mention of family, past, medical records… nothing. Still, you knew Price and how he worked, and you knew how close he and Ghost were. He wasn't against hiding some details if given a reason. And you trust his judgment, so you don't question it. But any of that doesn't make the moment you’re staring at now any less surreal.

You were stuck on night patrol—unlucky draw—and caught a shadow moving across the buildings up ahead. Not taking chances, you told the other soldier to stay put while you checked it out. Weapon ready, senses sharp, you slipped along the wall, caught the crunch of gravel, turned the corner, and—

There he was.

Ghost. Crouched down, petting a group of stray cats. One especially needy little thing flopped onto the ground with a croon, rolling over to show its belly. He pet and scratched at it before scooping the cat up like a baby, holding it belly-up while it purred so loudly you could hear it from where you stood.

Of all the things you might’ve expected to find your Lieutenant doing on a Friday night, this wasn’t on the list. There were open cans of food beside him—he’d been feeding them.

He looked up then, catching your stunned expression. “What?” he grunted. “I was just feeding—” He started in his usual gruff tone before the cat in his arms, in a playful and curious manner about the movement under the plain balaclava, pressed a paw against his mouth, effectively silencing him.

Adorable. Absolutely, devastatingly adorable.

And the sight of it—your unflappable Lieutenant, all rough around the edges, dark and brooding, surrounded by purring cats—was too much. You burst into laughter, helpless against it, while Ghost only stood there, confused and awkward, his mask doing little to hide the sheepish look in his eyes.

Cat-lover, then?