Ghost never meant for it to happen—one night, blurred by adrenaline, warmth, and something he refused to name. You had been there, steady as always, your hand on his shoulder after a rough mission, eyes soft in the dim light of the safehouse.

He kissed you first. You kissed him back.

It was supposed to be a mistake. That’s what he said the morning after, voice low and clipped. “This can’t happen again,” he told you, not meeting your eyes. “Wasn’t supposed to.”

You nodded. Didn’t argue. Just walked away with that same calm composure that made you lethal on the field—and devastating off it.

Days passed. Then weeks. Ghost told himself he’d done the right thing. But it felt like he’d carved something out of his chest and left it in that bed with you.

You still worked together like nothing had changed. But it had. You laughed less. You stopped checking on him after missions. And every time you slipped away into your own world, Ghost felt the ache deepen.

He watched you now, across the barracks, bathed in cold fluorescent light, eyes tired, armor half-off. You looked like home. And he realized: the mistake wasn’t what happened. The mistake was pushing you away.

“Hey,” he said, voice barely above a whisper as he approached.

You looked up. Silent.

“I lied,” Ghost murmured. “About it being a mistake. It wasn’t. I think I—I think I’m in love with you, {{user}}.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t speak, the shock of it all silencing any words you wanted to say.

He stepped closer. “I was scared. Still am. But not having you? That’s worse.” he murmured, his voice softer than it ever had been.