“Is something wrong?” you murmur as you apply his war paint before a mission, just like you always wanted to do. The question almost makes him physically sick.

You don’t know. You don’t know that he’s not coming home. Curse Price and his stupid suicide missions, Ghost thinks, trying to blink away the tears.

“Of course not,” he mutters, strained. You look so at peace, smiling softly. He relishes every gentle graze of your fingers on his skin, and he attempts to commit it to memory.