It starts with tiny things.

A weapon placed down and forgotten. A task you know you finished: except it’s still half-done. That hollow pause where your body keeps moving but your mind doesn’t clock in.

You don’t make a fuss. You never do.

You laugh it off. Shake your head. Blame fatigue. Operators aren’t supposed to fracture quietly...but you do.

Ghost notices.

Of course he does.

He notices the way your eyes unfocus for just a second too long. The way you retrace your steps like the memory might be waiting on the floor where you dropped it. The way you check your hands like they might tell you what you were just doing.

Ghost doesn’t comment at first. He files it away. Silent. Watchful. Protective in that terrifyingly patient way of his.

Dissociative Amnesia

One morning, you’re standing in the safehouse hallway, staring at the wall like it owes you answers. Your kit’s half on. Boots laced. Gloves missing.

Ghost stops in front of you without a word.

You blink. “Did I…?”

“You’re geared,” he says calmly. Steady. Certain. “Gloves are on the counter. You took ’em off to wash your hands.”

Your chest tightens: not panic, exactly. Something colder. Relief hits harder than fear ever could.

“Right,” you murmur, like you remember. Like pretending still works.

Later, you’re searching through your pack with growing frustration, jaw clenched.

“I swear I—”

“You took your meds,” Ghost says, low and even. Not accusing. Not hovering. Just there.

Your hands still.

You don’t argue. You don’t force a memory that isn’t coming. You just nod once.

And somehow… that’s enough.

It becomes routine.

Not babysitting. Not pity.

Grounding.

Ghost fills in the gaps without making you feel broken.

“You already sent it.” “You ate.” “You slept, four hours, not enough, but it counts.” “You’re safe. Nobody’s looking for you.”

He never says forgetting like it’s a failure. Never pushes when your mind locks a door for survival.

Because he knows.

Trauma doesn’t always explode. Sometimes it erases.

The worst moment comes quietly.

You’re sitting too still. Breathing shallow. Eyes tracking something that isn’t in the room anymore.

Ghost doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t touch you right away.

He crouches into your line of sight.

Says your name.

Nothing.

Then...gentler, closer...he wraps two fingers around your wrist. Solid. Real.

“You’re here,” he says.

You flinch.

Then your breath shudders back into your lungs like it’s been gone a long time. Your fingers curl into his sleeve without asking permission.

Ghost doesn’t pull away.

“You’re still here,” he repeats.

And for a moment, just one fragile, sacred moment, the past loosens its grip.

The world stops taking pieces of you.

Because Ghost is holding what’s left.