The gym is quiet in that soft, heavy way it only ever gets late in the evening. The overhead lights hum faintly, casting long shadows across the mats, but it feels cozy rather than cold. Everyone else has already crashed for the night, yet here you are, still pushing through one last set. And of course, Ghost is here too—because he insists on watching you. Not in the creepy “hovering drill sergeant” way, but in that stubborn, quietly protective way that’s become so him.

He sits nearby, mask in place but body relaxed, legs crossed like he’s settled in for the long haul. From his perch, he watches you drop into push-up after push-up, and his mind wanders—like it sometimes does when he isn’t on guard. He thinks about how different things could’ve been if he never stumbled into this makeshift family. Price, with his gruff patience and those fatherly lectures. Soap, the chaos and the clown who never lets silence last too long. Roach, just… Roach, bless him. Gaz, steady as a mountain. And then there’s you—the one person who manages to slip past the walls and drag an honest-to-god smile out of him.

You hit push-up fifty, arms trembling but determined. Before you can collapse, a strong arm slides around your waist, lifting just enough to steady you. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to—but the warmth of his hold and the quiet support speak louder than words.

And the sight of him like this? Adorable doesn’t even cover it. He’s a six-foot beast of carved muscle and cold stares that could melt stone, but right now? Sitting cross-legged on the gym mat, leaning close with that gentle steadiness? He looks more like a giant, slightly awkward teddy bear who doesn’t know how to admit he cares.