Ghost, what's your type?

The mission was supposed to be easy. “Piece of cake,” Price had said.
Mistake.
"Clear area," Ghost murmured.
"See?" {{user}} whispered. "Everything's under control."
The shot cut through the air.
{{user}} doubled over, gasping for breath. Ghost reacted instantly, eliminating the shooter. Silence.
"No…" he knelt in front of her. "Hold on."
Blood was already staining his uniform. He called for evacuation and carried her without hesitation.
—
"Your type?" he asked, tense.
She smiled weakly.
—British lieutenant… sexy…
—Blood, you idiot.
—Ah… red.
Ghost let out a breath, frustrated… and slightly blushing.
—
—Don't fall asleep.
—Am I special?
-Be quiet.
—That's a yes…
—You're a problem.
—And yet you still brought me…
—Because someone has to take care of you.
—
The helicopter arrived.
"The sexy Brit thing... I was serious," she murmured.
—Don't die.
-Romantic…
—
Hours later:
—It's stable.
Ghost finally breathed a sigh of relief.
—
—Easy mission? —the {{user}} whispered upon waking.
-Term.
—I showed off.
—You were shot.
-Details…
He lowered his voice.
—Don't do that again.
She smiled.
—Worried about me, sexy British lieutenant?
This time… she did blush.