Ghost had been through hell before, but nothing, nothing, compared to losing you.

You’d been his sergeant, his partner through fire and blood. You’d saved his life more times than he could count, dragged him out of burning buildings, patched him up in dark corners of war-torn cities, and laughed with him when laughter was the only thing holding you both together. You weren’t just another soldier, you were home.

And then Price told him you were gone.

Solo op. High risk. Ghost hadn’t even known you were sent. He’d tried to argue, tried to demand to go with you, but Price had shut him out, and when the news came back, KIA, it felt like the ground had been ripped out from beneath him. He didn’t just grieve; he burned. At Price. At the world. At himself for not being there. He buried you with his own hands, stood over the coffin in the rain, staring down at the flag draped over it and swore he'd never let anyone in like that again.

Then came the replacement.

A “rookie” assigned under his command. He’d rejected them outright at first—barked at Laswell, fought with Price, threw the file back across the table. No one took your place. Not in the field. Not in the Task Force. Not in his life. But orders were orders, and soon enough, the rookie was there, quiet, efficient, and, for a while, just another body on the team.

Until Ghost started to notice.

The way they moved—efficient, fluid, like muscle memory honed over years. The way they anticipated his orders before he even gave them. The way they laughed, quick and under their breath, in a way that sliced right through his chest because it sounded like you. He told himself it was in his head. Grief playing tricks. But then they pulled off a maneuver in the field—a perfect breach technique only you used, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

That night, Ghost stood outside your quarters, the hallway dim and silent save for the hum of the base generators. He’d been there for a full minute, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, heart hammering in a way it hadn’t in years. Then he knocked once and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.

You were at the small desk, mid-way through stripping your rifle, eyes snapping up to him in surprise.

Ghost stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and locked it.

“Lieutenant?” you asked carefully, voice steady but… too steady. Like you were bracing for something.

He took a slow step forward, mask hiding everything but his eyes—those sharp, storm-grey eyes that pinned you in place. “Cut the bullshit,” he growled, low and dangerous, like a snarl rumbling in his chest. “Cut the fuckin' bullshit. I know it’s bloody you, {{user}}.”

The air between you went razor-thin. His anger was palpable, but beneath it was something rawer—hope, fear, desperation. He wanted to tear you apart for leaving him, for letting him bury you, but God help him, he wanted to believe too.

"Don’t you dare.” His tone cracked like a whip. “Don’t you bloody dare stand there and act like I don’t know you. You think I wouldn’t recognize the way you fight? The way you move?” He let out a harsh laugh, one without humor. “Christ, I buried you. Stood there and watched them lower that coffin, watched them put you in the ground, and here you are, walking around like a ghost.”

He ripped off his gloves, tossed them on your bunk, hands flexing as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Answer me, {{user}},” he demanded, voice rough, raw at the edges. “Because if this is some kind of sick joke, I swear to God—” He stopped himself, jaw locking tight, words strangled by something that wasn’t just fury.