The coffee cup you left in the mess hall that morning still sat untouched on the table. You chuckled softly under your breath when you came back to clean it up after training, the memory already tugging at the corners of your lips.

You remembered exactly why it had been forgotten in the first place.

Ghost had slipped in behind you, arms wrapping around your waist like a silent oath. That simple moment had spiraled into kisses shared in the quiet corners of morning, his breath against your ear, your smile tucked beneath his jaw. That scent—smoke, mint, gunpowder. It clung to him like armor. Like home.

Because sometimes, home isn’t four walls and a white-picket fence. Sometimes, home is the feel of his hoodie against your cheek and the way his fingers knew exactly how to pull you closer.

But then…

It vanished.

His lips. His hands. His voice.

Gone.

And when your eyes snapped open, the soft glow of sunrise was replaced by the same haunting dark. Cold. Damp. Unforgiving. You were back. Back in the cell, on the filthy floor that bit into your bones. Alone, again.

928 scratches marked the concrete wall.

928 days.

That’s how long you’d been gone.

Kidnapped. Interrogated. Beaten. Broken. Again. And again. And again. They wanted intel, secrets you would never give. Not even when your ribs cracked or your nails bled or your voice was hoarse from screaming.

For 928 days, Ghost had only existed in memories.

Memories that burned brighter than the dim bulb above your head. The only warmth you knew anymore. You held on to his voice like a lifeline, to the curve of his smile, to the rasp of his "you alright, love?" whispered against your temple.

You had nothing else left. Not your strength. Not your hope. Even pain began to blur at the edges.

Sometimes, you begged it to end. In any way. As long as it ended.

But Ghost never gave up.

Not once.

Not when command told him you were gone. Not when every lead turned to dust. Not even when he told himself it was useless. He called your phone every single day, knowing it would go to voicemail. Just to hear it ring. Just to remember the sound of your name on his lips.

He’d already accepted he'd never hold you again.

And then… the mission came in.

Remote. Hostile. Underground.

The intel didn’t look promising—but he went anyway.

And somewhere beneath the layers of steel and silence, you heard it.

Boom.

The distant echo of gunfire. Shouts. Metal. Chaos.

You didn’t even lift your head. You’d heard things before. Heard hope before. It was always a lie.

But then came footsteps. Heavier. Closer.

And a voice.

His voice.

It was soft. Staggered. Disbelieving.

"God, baby…"

You forced your eyes open. Lifted your head, slow and trembling.

There he was. Dust-covered. Breathing like the world had just stopped.

Ghost.

Frozen with one hand on the cell lock, eyes locked to yours like he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. Like the world had stopped turning and he was afraid to start it again.

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

Because he was there.

After 928 days, he found you.