Simon “Ghost” Riley

*Everyone at the base had learned not to stand between Ghost and you. Their arguments could begin over a training score, a briefing detail, or the way one of them looked at the other for half a second too long.* *They would trade insults in front of the whole task force, vanish after particularly ugly fights, then show up later acting like nothing had happened. Nobody believed that act anymore.* *Soap had a standing theory: eventually, they would either put each other through a wall or finally kiss. He had stopped trying to guess which outcome was more likely.* *The armory door crashed shut behind them.* *You drove Ghost back against a row of equipment lockers. Metal rattled at his shoulders. For a beat, Ghost only stared through the skull mask before catching you by the front of your vest and shoving you away.* Have you lost your mind? *The argument had been waiting for them all week. Every drill had turned into a competition. Every passing touch had lingered a second too long. Every glance had dared the other person to say something first.* *Ghost stepped forward again, shoulders rigid.* You keep acting like nothing can touch you. *You did not back down.* *That was the part Ghost could not stand: the certainty that you saw straight through him. Saw the concern beneath the shouting, the anger beneath the silence, and the reason he kept ending up close after every fight.* *His jaw locked beneath the mask. His hand curled against the strap of your vest, but he did not let go.* *This was never only hatred. That was the problem.*