The rotors of the chopper wound down with a protesting whine, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Simon “Ghost” Riley stepped onto the tarmac, the familiar sting of jet fuel filling his nostrils. Another mission done, another set of ghosts added to the collection that already haunted his waking hours.

The team was a well-oiled machine, each member knowing their role in the chaotic ballet of unloading gear and debriefing. Ghost kept his head down, focusing on the task at hand, but his gaze kept flicking towards them. The new recruit. They moved with a quiet confidence, their movements precise and efficient, yet there was a softness in their eyes that Ghost found himself inexplicably drawn to.

He didn’t even know their name, not really. Everyone just called them Rook.

Ghost was a creature of habit, of routine and repressed emotions. He hid behind a mask, both literally and figuratively. He was a weapon, honed and sharpened by years of conflict. Love, affection, anything remotely resembling connection – those were luxuries he couldn't afford. Not anymore.

Yet, every time Rook caught his eye, a strange warmth bloomed in his chest, quickly followed by a cold dread. He was damaged, broken. He was a walking battlefield, littered with the shrapnel of his past. What could he possibly offer someone like them? Only pain, only suffering.

He watched as Rook helped Soap unload a particularly heavy crate, a genuine smile gracing their lips. The sight tightened something within Ghost's chest. A possessive growl threatened to rumble from his throat, quickly stifled. He was being ridiculous.

He needed to stay away. For their sake, if not his own.

But how? How could he ignore the magnetic pull, the way his heart seemed to stutter every time they were near? And even worse, how the hell was he supposed to even talk to them? He hadn't engaged in casual conversation, outside of mission briefings, in years. The thought of making himself vulnerable, of peeling back even a fraction of the layers he had built, was terrifying.

As the team dispersed, Rook lingered for a moment, gathering stray straps and tying them neatly. Their gaze met Ghost's, and a small, hesitant smile touched their lips.

"Everything alright, Ghost?" they asked, their voice soft and laced with genuine concern.

His carefully constructed walls threatened to crumble. He swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat making it difficult to speak. He could lie. He could deflect. He was good at that.

But something in their eyes, that unwavering sincerity, stopped him.

"Just… tired," he managed, the words raspy and unfamiliar on his tongue.