It had been days since the incident on the training mat—days of aching ribs, a throbbing shoulder, and a bruised hip that complained with every step.

Gaz, in one brilliant moment of poor judgment, had decided that “increased intensity” meant hurling you hard enough to crack bone. The dislocation wasn’t the worst of it—painful, sure, but manageable. It was the rib, the deep, stabbing ache that refused to let you breathe or sleep, that really made life hell.

You were supposed to be wearing a sling. The infirmary nurse practically begged you to. But it felt like surrender, and you weren’t ready to be seen like that.

Gaz got benched for weeks. Price chewed him out so thoroughly half the base heard it, and Ghost—well, Ghost nearly had him pinned to the wall by the throat. Justice served, you guessed.

But none of it made up for the fact that you were grounded. No missions. No action. Just pain and boredom.

So when sleep proved impossible—when the frustration buzzing under your skin got louder than the ache—you shoved on a hoodie, laced your shoes, and slipped your headphones on. Music helped drown out your head, if nothing else.

The base was dead at this hour. Just the wind slipping between the mountain ridges and the faint hum of crickets you could still hear beneath the music. You walked without much purpose, letting your mind drift back to the moment everything went sideways: the crack of pain in your side, the shock in Gaz’s eyes, the shouts from Soap, Price, and Ghost as you curled around the injury.

And Ghost—bloody hell—he’d been the first to reach you, the first to drop to a knee, gauntlet brushing your jaw as he tried to get you to look at him. You could still hear the low rasp of his voice telling you to breathe, guiding your hand away from the dislocated shoulder, cursing under his breath when you hissed in pain. And the worst part wasn’t the pain—it was the way he’d looked at you.

Worried.

You’d never seen him like that. Not with you. So... careful.

You weren’t close like that. Not really. You clashed more than you connected. You tested each other. You annoyed each other. That was the dynamic. Safe. Simple.

But when you’d pulled away—snapped that you were fine—you’d seen something flicker behind his eyes. Frustration, or hurt, or maybe anger covering something softer. And then he’d shut down so fast it was like a door slamming.

That look still bothered you.

By the time you reached the bench overlooking the dark sweep of mountains and the star-scattered sky, you felt hollow. You sat carefully, easing yourself down with a small wince, and shoved your good hand into your hoodie pocket.

And God, you felt useless.

You ripped off your headphones, the sudden motion sending a spike of pain through your ribs. “Fuck!” you snapped, hurling them toward the sandy ground. They landed with a dull thud. The outburst echoed longer than you meant it to. Heat crawled up your neck—anger, pain, embarrassment all tangled together.

A shadow shifted behind you.

Broad shoulders. Heavy boots. A presence you felt before you saw. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Ghost.

You cursed under your breath and dropped your gaze, covering your face with your hand as if that could hide the tantrum he’d walked in on. Perfect. Exactly the image you wanted.

You hadn't spoken to him in days. Too frustrated with your own thoughts to even socialize with your team.

You heard him approach—slow, deliberate steps, the scrape of gear, the faint jingle of a holster clip. Then he bent to pick up your headphones, brushing sand off them with a gloved thumb. He didn’t say a word as he straightened and lowered himself onto the bench beside you. The wood creaked under his weight. His presence alone felt heavier than the night air.

He held the headphones loosely toward you in one hand, the other resting on his knee, thumb tapping once—an uncharacteristic tell.