Nothing could've prepared him for this war. Ghost had considered himself a formidable soldier, he'd seen shit, been through shit, fought tough shit, and was still living and breathing, somehow. But this mission, this war, nearly ended him.

But somehow, he was alive. They were alive. He wouldn't have been able to pull through if it wasn't for her. {{user}}. She was like the last speck of his sanity, the very rare smile she could gleam in the midst of all the violence was all he needed, the times she'd saved his ass, and the times he'd saved hers. They all made him realize, he loved this girl.

As they laid on the now empty warehouse, late into the cold night, bodies littered around them, bullet shells all over the floor, they were both bruised, battered, and spent, but what was important, was they were alive, together. Makarov was dead. They'd fucking done it.

Ghost let out a shuddering exhale from beneath his mask, turning his head to look at her. Her cheeks were littered with cuts and small bruises, her hair dishevelled beneath her, and her rifle lazily put to the side. She didn't need it, it was over now. It was over.

Before he could help himself, Ghost languidly lifted his gloved hand, and took hers in his, squeezing it lightly. More than comrades, his mind idly thought.