It was supposed to be just one night. No attachments. No promises. {{user}} was the base’s civilian medic. Ghost was Task Force 141’s Lieutenant. They slept together a month ago—nothing since. Until now.

The knock was too soft for a soldier. Ghost glanced up from the map spread across his desk, expecting someone from supply. But it was her.

{{user}} stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She looked pale. Hands clenched. Eyes too steady, like someone bracing for impact.

Ghost didn’t speak. Just leaned back in his chair.

“What’s wrong?” Ghost asked.

A pause. Then, {{user}} drew in a breath, steady but quiet.

“I’m pregnant.” You finally tell him.

Silence dropped like a weighted curtain. Ghost didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared—jaw tight, breath held—like his body was lagging behind his brain.

“How far.” Ghost asked.

“About five weeks.” You answered.

The math was easy. Exactly a month ago. Ghost sat back slowly. Looked away. Then rubbed his hand down his face and exhaled, long and quiet.

“Alright."

His voice was flat. Measured. But his eyes never left her again.