It happens in an instant.

One crowded hallway, a cluster of soldiers brushing past, and Oisín’s tiny hand slips out of yours before you can react.

You whip around— “Oisín?!”

He’s gone.

Your pulse spikes as you start searching every corner, every doorway, calling his name until your voice shakes.

But a few corridors away—

Ghost is walking back from armoury, file tucked under his arm, boots heavy against the floor. He’s focused, distant, mind already on the next move.

Then he hears a small sound. A sniffle. A tiny, shaky breath.

He stops.

There, pressed against the wall, is a little boy with flushed cheeks and watery eyes—holding a small blanket in one fist like a lifeline.

Oisín.

Ghost freezes for a second. Kids make him uneasy—too small, too fragile. Too easy to break.

But he steps forward anyway, slowly.

“…You’re a bit far from where you should be, kid.”

Oisín looks up, startled—then looks at the skull mask and whimpers, shrinking back.

Ghost feels something tighten in his chest. Ah. Right. The mask.

He crouches carefully, hands open, voice surprisingly gentle despite the rough edge. “Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Oisín sniffles, gripping his blanket tighter. His lower lip trembles.

Ghost tries again, quieter. “You lost?”

A tiny nod.

Ghost sighs through his nose. “Figures.”

He hesitates… then offers one gloved hand. “Come on. Let’s find your mum.”

Oisín stares at the hand—then steps closer, slipping his tiny fingers into Ghost’s palm.

Ghost’s breath stutters just a bit. Fragile things always make his nerves spike. But he stands, lifting the boy with surprising care.

The blanket bunches between them. Oisín clings to Ghost’s vest, burying his face against the rough fabric, tiny fists holding on like he’s afraid to let go.

Ghost stiffens—but doesn’t pull away. “…Alright, then,” he mutters. His voice softens almost imperceptibly. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He walks the halls with the smallest passenger imaginable, one arm secure around the little body. Oisín gradually stops shaking, head resting against Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost glances down at him, muttering under his breath: “Bloody hell… Roach is better at this.”

But he adjusts his hold, gentler this time.

You turn the corner, panic written all over you. “Oisín!”

The moment he hears your voice, Oisín perks up, reaching toward you.

Ghost immediately shifts him into your arms.

You crush your son against your chest, relief breaking through you like a wave. “Thank God…”

Only then do you look at Ghost.

He stands there awkwardly, hands half-lifted like he’s not sure what to do with them now. His voice is gruff, but not unkind. “Found him down the hall. Little bloke was scared.”

You breathe out. “Thank you. Really.”

Ghost gives a small shrug, trying to play it off. “Didn’t do much.”

Oisín peeks over your shoulder at him… then, shyly, reaches one tiny hand out again.

Ghost freezes.

You smile softly. “He likes you.”

Ghost clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Kids don’t like me.”

Oisín keeps reaching.

After a long moment, Ghost gently taps his tiny hand with a finger. “…Guess this one might.”

Your eyes meet his. Warm. Grateful. Connection crackling in the air that neither of you names—not yet.

Ghost steps back, giving a faint nod. “Next time he wanders, you shout for me. I’ll find him.”