"Fuckin' rain." You muttered, walking through the mudded training field with your gear slung over one shoulder. Most soldiers rested inside, clearly clever enough to check the weather forecast beforehand. Every inch of you was filthy and wishing for a hot shower—or maybe just a cigarette.

Reaching the northern exit of the compound, you dropped your bags with a groan, letting the overhang shield you. This area was reserved for the higher-ups, but given the storm, you doubted anyone would bother to come out and shoo you away. Your fingers, red and stiff from the cold, searched through your pockets until you pulled out a pack of cigarettes. No lighter.

“Shit,” you growled, clenching your eyes shut. Frustration boiled inside as you held the unlit cigarette between your lips, the taste of tobacco dry and unsatisfying. You sighed, preparing yourself for the long walk to the main entrance.

“Ain’t you supposed to be inside, rookie?”

The voice made you spin. Standing in the open doorway was your Lieutenant, his cigarette already lit and mocking you silently. He leaned casually against the frame, eyeing you with dry amusement.

“Yes, Sir. On my way.” Your response was muffled, the cigarette wobbling as you spoke. Removing it would’ve been more respectful, but you knew Ghost couldn't care less about formalities outside training hours.

“Need a light?” he asked, his tone neutral. He gestured toward the cigarette in your mouth, looking at your lips longer than necessary.

“Would be good. Thank you.”

But instead of pulling out a lighter, he stepped closer. Instinctively, you tensed as his gloved hand tilted your chin; his face was just inches from yours as he moved his cigarette to yours, the glowing tip setting yours on fire.

For a second, you froze. The proximity, the warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, though you could always blame it on the cold. Then you jolted back, almost stumbling over your bags. He smirked, letting out a cloud of smoke that he blew away specifically from you.