The rain hammered the metal roof like it held a grudge. Shadows flickered along the cracked concrete walls as the dim ceiling bulb swayed with the wind outside. You sat cross-legged on an old couch, gun half-cleaned in your lap, but your hands had stopped moving minutes ago.

You were watching him again.

Simon Riley. Ghost. Your teammate, your friend, your anchor in the chaos of war. He sat across the room, his skull mask resting on the table, leaving his face bare—a rare sight, a private thing. He only removed it when he felt safe. When he felt among friends.

He laughed at something Soap had said—one of his bad jokes, no doubt—and your chest ached at the sound. It wasn’t fair. That laugh, soft and low, was something you used to share in private moments, during watch duty, long nights, and quiet walks through enemy territory. Now it was shared with everyone. And you had no right to feel possessive.

You knew that.

You were just another member of the team. Reliable, competent, and forgettable in the ways that mattered.

You blinked, eyes burning, and went back to scrubbing the barrel of your rifle like it hadn’t become an excuse to stay in the room longer.

“Y’alright?” his voice cut through the hum of voices and static from the radio. Deep, a little rough around the edges. You didn’t look up right away.

“Yeah. Just tired,” you said, forcing a tight smile. “Long week.”

Simon tilted his head slightly, studying you with that look—the one that always made your heart stutter. The one that said he saw too much, and yet not enough.

He nodded slowly. “Get some sleep when you can. You’ve been pushin’ too hard.”

You shrugged. “So have you.”

He smirked. “Yeah, but I’m not as stubborn as you.”

That almost made you smile. Almost.

But then the door creaked open and a voice floated in—Miller, one of the newer recruits, still green, still too loud. “Oi, Ghost. You know {{user}}’s got a thing for you, right?”

The words hit you like a bullet to the spine.

The room went silent. Even the storm outside seemed to pause in cruel anticipation.

Your heart dropped. Your breath caught. Your stomach twisted violently.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Your fingers clenched around the rag in your hand, the barrel slipping from your lap and clattering to the floor.

Soap let out a low whistle. “Christ, mate.”

Simon didn’t laugh. Didn’t speak.

And that silence hurt more than any bullet ever could.

“I was just jokin’, man—” Miller started, but was silenced with one look from Ghost.

You stood, fast and stiff, the chair legs scraping sharply against the concrete. “I’m gonna—get some air.”

You didn’t wait for permission. You didn’t need to see the expression on Simon’s face. You already knew what it would be—pity, maybe. Discomfort. Confusion. Not love. Never love.

The cold night air slapped you in the face as you stepped outside, letting the rain soak into your skin, your gear. It was better than the heat burning in your chest.

You should’ve said something before. Should’ve told him when it was just the two of you in the dark, sharing shitty rations and tired stories. When he called you by your name in that soft, unguarded way he only ever used off-comms.

But you didn’t.

And now it was out.

And it wasn’t yours anymore.