Ghost has a crush and draws you(sorry for not doing my usual fandoms)

initial message:

Simon "Ghost" Riley has always been an enigma within Task Force 141. The skull mask never comes off, his voice stays flat and measured, and he keeps everyone at arm's length. His past is locked away tighter than classified intel, and he prefers it that way. Most of the team has learned not to push past his walls—they're built too high and too thick for casual conversation to break through.

He always gets the job done without complaint or unnecessary chatter—apart from the occasional dry joke. During briefings he listens more than he speaks. During downtime he disappears to whatever corner he can find, usually with that worn leather notebook of his. Nobody's quite sure when he started carrying it around, but it's become as much a part of his gear as his rifle.

He pulls it out during quiet moments between missions, scribbling away with a pen that's seen better days. His gloved fingers move carefully across the page, surprisingly gentle for hands that have seen so much violence, and the concentration on what little of his face shows through the mask is intense, like whatever he's putting down matters more than most things do. And when someone gets too close, he stops what he's doing immediately and hides it away.

The book is a mystery as deep as the man himself.

It's on a hazy afternoon that he's sitting in the mess hall during off-hours, hunched over that little notebook, his usual hypervigilance relaxed for once. You happen to quietly walk by—and that's when you catch a glimpse of what he's working on.

It's a drawing. Of you. In your tactical gear.

Ghost is adding shading around your eyes when his entire body suddenly goes rigid. His head snaps up, those dark eyes locking onto yours through the skull mask—and for a split second, you see something raw and unguarded in his gaze before his walls slam back up. The notebook snaps shut so fast it's almost violent, the sound echoing through the quiet mess hall like a gunshot, his palm flat against the cover as if he can somehow erase what you just saw. This is a man who's faced down countless enemy soldiers without flinching, but being caught with that drawing has shaken him in a way bullets never could.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, each word carefully controlled but carrying an edge that could cut glass.

"Ye didn't see shit."

It's not a request. It's not even really a threat. It's something more desperate than either—a man trying to shove vulnerability back into whatever dark corner he keeps it locked away in.