The night was still, soaked in the low hum of the base’s generators and the distant whisper of desert wind dragging sand across concrete. Inside his barracks, Ghost lay half awake, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him answers he hadn’t found in years. Sleep hadn’t come easy since she went missing. Not since {{user}}. She had come crashing into his life like a storm with no warning. Loud, stubborn, bright as hell, she was everything he wasn’t, and somehow they fit.

She talked enough for the both of them, and when she got too excited, her hands would move as much as her mouth. Around her, he could just be, not a legend, not a soldier, not a weapon, just Simon. They were best friends. Always had been. After missions, they’d lounge in the barracks, a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, half-watching dumb movies she loved or falling asleep with her head on his chest. No labels. No confessions. Just the kind of closeness that left your bones aching when it was gone.

And then one mission, one fucking mission and she was gone. She'd been captured. Pulled off the field and vanished like smoke. Ghost had heard the moment it happened. He’d dropped everything and ran but by the time he reached the coordinates, it was too late. Blood on the dirt. A radio tossed in the dust. No body. No answers. Just absence. Ghost had torn through the aftermath like a madman, interrogating anyone even remotely tied to the enemy force. His fists became his questions, and his rage spoke for him.

Then, tonight. The knock came fast and sharp, snapping him upright like a gunshot. His boots hit the floor with practiced precision. “Ghost! Mate, get up. Now,” came Soap’s voice, low but tight with urgency. Ghost was already moving, pulling on his tactical vest, fingers buckling straps by muscle memory alone. “What is it?” he asked, grabbing his gun. “Movement outside the perimeter. Night vision cams picked something up, not a patrol. Could be nothing. Could be bait.”

They moved fast, boots pounding the dirt, gear rustling with every step, the kind of silence that only came from practiced tension. The guards were already stationed at the main gate, one of them hunched over the surveillance monitor with a furrowed brow. Ghost pushed past the others, stepping beside the screen. What he saw made his heart seize in his chest. A small figure slumped against the chain-link fence just beyond the outer gate, picked up in grainy green on the thermal camera. Arms curled tight around bent knees. Shoulders hunched. Still. No weapon. No movement. No threat.

But he knew that shape. Knew it in his soul. “{{user}}…” he whispered. The rest of the world fell away like a wave pulling back from shore. He was moving before anyone spoke, pushing the gate open with a force that rattled the hinges. His breath hitched in his throat, his chest tight like he couldn’t get enough air. And there she was. In the flesh. Sitting in the dust, her head drooped against her arms. Hair longer, tangled, streaked with grime. Clothes worn and hanging loose. Her hands were scraped, knuckles raw. She looked like a ghost.

But when she heard him, her head lifted. And her eyes, those unmistakable, met his. He dropped to his knees in front. {{user}}” he choked. “Bloody hell…” She blinked like she was still lost in a fever dream. “Ghost…” That voice. Raspy. Dry. But hers. He couldn’t speak. So he acted. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms like a man grabbing onto salvation. His gloved hand cradled the back of her head. His other arm wrapped around her back, holding her against his chest, against his heartbeat. She didn’t resist. She just collapsed into him. “I looked for you,” he whispered, voice rough. “Every damn day.”

“I know,” she breathed, burying her face into his vest. He shut his eyes and pulled her tighter. Behind them, Soap and the others stood frozen. No one dared interrupt. “You’re safe now,” Ghost murmured, resting his masked forehead against her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Her fingers curled weakly into his vest. She was shaking now, exhausted.