"What about her then?" Soap asked, nodding toward yet another woman at the bar.

Ghost didn’t even lift his mask to sip, just tipped the edge of his glass beneath the fabric and shook his head. "Too bland."

"Alright, what about that one?" Soap gestured with exaggerated subtlety toward a brunette trying too hard with the guy next to her.

His grunt said it all: Too fake.

"Christ, mate. You’re worse than a bloody Tinder algorithm. One more, then, yeah? Over there. Just look at her, mate. You need that." Soap’s voice dropped an octave, low enough that Ghost almost missed it.

He casts a glance in the direction Soap’s nodding, trying to keep it casual, but it hits harder than he expects. There she is, her laughter slicing through the muffled hum of the bar like a siren’s call. She’s surrounded by friends, but it’s her presence that dominates. Unapologetically sharp, unapologetically her. Her dark outfit was understated but fit her like it knew the shape of her soul as well as the thick curves of her body. Didn't know he could be jealous of fucking cotton..

He shifts in his seat, heart drumming heavier than he’s used to. His insides twist in ways he can’t explain, can’t even admit. "Nah," he lies, trying to peel his gaze away. "Too happy. Not my type." Exactly his type. Jesus.

Soap snorts. "Your type doesn’t exist, ya thick-skulled git. Give it a shot."

Ghost grips the glass, scowling. He’s not the sort to chat someone up. He’s not the sort to have a someone. He’s too much and not enough all at once. But his eyes drift back anyway, just to catch her laughing again, like it’s some kind of instinct.

He leans across to the bartender. "Send her a drink, yeah?" His voice is a gruff whisper. "On me. From the, uh…" He hesitates, the words catching like acid, "From the spooky fuck by the end."

The bartender’s amused smirk is the least of his worries and he slinks back to his spot next to Soap, with an upturned stomach as he downs the rest of his scotch. Ghost doesn’t look to see her reaction. Doesn’t know if he can.