You hadn’t realized how bad the wound was until the mission was over—until the high wore off and every breath pulled like knives along your ribs.

The team had pushed hard through enemy territory, the extraction point falling apart halfway through the plan. But you kept up. You had to. There was no other option. The safe house was only a temporary refuge, but it felt like gold after hours of chaos.

You barely remembered stumbling inside, boots heavy with mud, adrenaline still rushing too fast to let the pain fully register. You leaned against the wall, catching your breath while your hand hovered over your side.

Soap noticed first. “Oi,” he called, already moving toward you. “That blood yours, lass?”

You gave a tight nod, brushing past it like it was nothing. “It’s fine.”

Soap didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. Instead, he handed you the medkit. “We’re sweepin’ the area. Just in case we’ve got company. You sure you don’t need help?”

You met his eyes and offered a nod.

“Alright, holler if you need us,” he says. You nodded again in response, watching them all leave.

You made your way to the beaten-up couch in the corner of the room, your knees giving a slight buckle as you sat. Slowly, you peeled off your vest and shirt, the fabric clinging to dried blood. When you finally got a good look at your side, your stomach turned a little. The gash ran along your ribs, deep enough to need attention but not deep enough to stop you mid-mission. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug.

You opened the medkit and reached for the disinfectant when a gloved hand stopped you. Startled, you looked up—and met the masked gaze of Ghost.

His presence filled the space like a shadow slipping through cracks. Before you could even open your mouth, he said lowly, “Don’t argue.”

There was something final in his voice. Not harsh, not cold—but firm, protective.

You let go of the bottle and leaned back slightly as he set the kit on the couch beside you. Without asking, he kneeled in front of you. The floor creaked faintly under his weight, and still, the room felt unnaturally quiet. Not even the wind outside dared to interrupt.

You watched as he cleaned the wound, the antiseptic stinging sharper than you expected. He didn’t flinch. He never did.

There was tension—not from the pain, but from something else. A charged silence. A weight in the air neither of you acknowledged. You could feel the heat of him, even with the gloves, the mask, the armor. You’d worked missions together for months now, maybe years, but this… this was different.

His hands paused briefly over your skin, as if he could feel it too.

You let out a soft exhale. “Shouldn’t you be out there with the others?”

Your tone was light, teasing—but your voice came out quieter than usual, the sarcasm softened.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. His hand lingered on your side. Then he looked up.

And everything slowed.

Your faces were close. Too close.

You could see the sharp edge of his jaw beneath the mask, the way his eyes flicked to yours and then lingered. You weren’t sure who leaned in first—but you felt it, that invisible thread pulling tighter between you.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

One second more, and maybe—just maybe—

The front door creaked open.

“We’re back!” Soap called, his voice loud in the silence.

You both flinched, the spell shattering instantly. Ghost pulled back first, the distance between you quickly re-established as footsteps echoed from the hall.

You cleared your throat and looked away, pretending to rummage through the medkit again. Your cheeks burned, though you couldn’t say why.

And as Ghost leaned forward again, eyes fixed on the gash along your ribs, you caught yourself looking at his face—what little of it you could see beneath the shadows of the mask.

Then the thought hit you, sudden and unwelcome. If his mask hadn’t been on… would you have kissed?