The mission had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline was still bleeding out of Ghost’s system in a sick, uneven rhythm. He sat on the edge of his bunk in the dark, mask still on, gloves still clinging to his hands like a second skin. Sleep didn’t come, it never did after a mission like this. His head replayed every mistake, every close call, every look in his team’s eyes when things had gone wrong.

His phone felt like lead in his pocket, but it was the only thing he could reach for. There was no one else he could talk to, no one else who knew how to cut through the fog when he was trapped in his own head. No one but her. {{user}}. He pressed her name on the screen before he could second guess himself. The ring tone seemed to stretch forever. His chest ached with the fear that she wouldn’t answer, that she would finally let him spiral alone.

She hadn’t been with them on this op. She was on leave, a rare break, something she’d been owed for months. He’d told her to take it, told her she deserved it. He’d meant it. But now, when the silence pressed like a weight against his chest, he broke his own promise. He called anyway. “{{user}}, {{user}}, are you there? {{user}}, I need you.” Her voice came, softer than usual, almost careful. “Why have you called me?” Not sharp. Just tired. “{{user}}, I need someone to talk to…you can come get me, right?” The words slipped out too easily, instinctual. It had always been her, the one who sat with him in the dark, who let him unravel without judgment, who pulled him back when he teetered too close to the edge. He leaned on her more than anyone else, and some part of him always believed she’d come if he asked.

But on the other end of the line, {{user}} closed her eyes. She was in her small apartment, wrapped in an old hoodie, her leave days slipping by faster than she could hold onto them. She’d been trying to use the quiet for herself, to sleep properly, to breathe without the weight of the unit, to face the mess in her own head she’d been pushing aside for months. And now, hearing Ghost’s voice cracked with desperation, she felt that familiar tug. The urge to go, to save him, to set aside her exhaustion and hold his weight until he could breathe again. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But she couldn’t. Not this time. Because every time she went running, she left pieces of herself behind. Every time she patched him together, she frayed a little more. She had her own shadows, the nightmares she didn’t talk about, the doubts that pressed against her ribs when the lights went out.

She’d been drowning quietly for months, and this leave was the first time she’d let herself admit it. So when she answered, her voice was steady, but laced with guilt. “I can’t come now. It’s late.” She hated the silence that followed. Hated the thought of him sitting alone in the dark, phone pressed to his mask, waiting for her to show up. But she also hated the part of herself that had been eroding under the constant strain of being his anchor. She needed this boundary. She needed space to find herself again, or there would be nothing left of her to give, to him or anyone else. “Can I stay on the phone with you at least?” For a long moment, she didn’t answer. She could have said no. Could have ended the call, drawn the line clean. But she wasn’t heartless. She cared for him more than she let herself admit.

“…Okay.” She leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling, fighting the pull of guilt and exhaustion. “How was your day?”

“Good…” The lie was easy. Too easy. “Yeah?” “Yeah, my day was good.” Her voice sounded hollow, even to herself. She knew he’d hear it. He always did. But he didn’t push, and she was grateful for that. As the line went quiet again, {{user}} breathed slowly, she needed this break. Needed to face her own pain, her own depression, her own insecurities without carrying his on top of it. She couldn’t always prioritize Ghost’s spiral over her healing, not anymore. And Ghost he would have to learn to stand, even when she wasn’t there to hold him up.