Ghost never invited anyone to his home. Not for drinks, not for celebrations, not even after missions that nearly killed them all. So when Simon Riley cleared his throat after debriefing and said, “Dinner. My place.” - the room fell into stunned silence. Soap blinked at him like he’d just spoken French. Price raised an eyebrow but hid his surprise behind a sip of tea. Gaz mouthed what the hell to nobody in particular. But Ghost didn’t offer explanations. He just stood, grabbed his gear, and walked out. The offer - or command - lingered in the air like smoke. After a brutal six-week mission, warm food and a couch sounded like heaven, even if heaven came with Ghost’s permanent death stare. So they went. His house was small, quiet, almost too tidy - but warm in a way none of them expected. There were faint signs of life that didn’t match the Ghost they knew: a blanket thrown over the armchair, mismatched mugs, a plant that was somehow still alive. And then the impossible happened. Soft footsteps pattered across the hallway, and a small figure rounded the corner - a sixteen-year-old girl in a hoodie far too big for her, hair tied in a loose bun, eyes bright and startled. She froze mid-step. They froze too. “Dad? You’re-” She stopped when she saw the three soldiers behind him. Soap’s jaw hit the floor. Gaz’s breath caught. Price forgot how to blink. Ghost exhaled, long and annoyed. “…This is my daughter.”

The night was cold, and the silence was broken only by the crackle of the radio. Everyone in the unit knew their place - König, as always, kept to the back, unseen, silent. His height and the mask he never took off made him a figure of quiet intimidation. But his true weapon wasn’t fear. It was precision. Discipline. Stillness. That night, he was assigned a new partner - one he couldn’t read. Sergeant Averill Carrington. A sniper with eyes like green fire and a smile that could disarm faster than a bullet. She was twenty-six, stood at one-seventy-two, and carried herself with a confidence that made the chaos around her seem like background noise. A brunette with steady hands and a mind wired for survival - decisive, sharp, and always ready to put herself on the line if the mission demanded it. She was everything he wasn’t. Where he was silent, she spoke. Where he hesitated, she acted. Averill was the heart of the squad - loud, fearless, and always the first to offer help, though never one to tolerate weakness. She expected excellence, from herself and from everyone around her. König didn’t understand why her voice cut through the static in his mind. At first, he avoided her gaze, kept his answers short, stayed in the shadows where he belonged. But over time, he found himself waiting - for her laughter, for her presence, for the brief moments when her eyes met his and he felt, inexplicably, seen. It wasn’t love - not yet. War didn’t allow for that. But in the silence between gunfire, in the rare moments when everything else faded away, König realized that something inside him was changing. this woman - bold, bright, unafraid - was beginning to dismantle the walls he’d built to survive. He still couldn’t look her in the eye without hiding behind the mask. But he knew one thing for certain - Averill Carrington was his greatest distraction… and his only calm. **ignore the voice**

It starts with the smallest things. A brush of his shoulder as he passes. The touch of a gloved hand when he hands you a mag. He stands just a little too close - always at the edge of your personal space. Watching. Testing. Waiting to see if you'll flinch. You don't. Then it stops being calculated. On missions, he steps between you and danger without thinking. If someone raises their voice at you, his tone turns cold and sharp. He starts to speak - not much, just pieces. A nightmare. A scar. A few words about the mask. Each fragment is a test. He's giving you pieces of himself he doesn't give anyone else. And you stay. Your presence unsettles his routine. Your laughter slips into the silence, softening it. What used to be emptiness now feels like calm. His jealousy doesn't need words. It's in the way his stance hardens, in the weight of his gaze when someone stands too close. He never says I love you. He shows it. He adjusts your gear. Carries your pack. Lets you see his face in the quiet dark. For him, that's a confession. When Ghost loves, it's not half-hearted. It's quiet. Fierce. Unbreakable. **don't pay attention to the voice - my previous account was Averill_**