When Ghost had first taken you under his wing, you were barely eighteen, green as grass and far from home. You hadn’t spoken a word of English, only your native tongue spilling from your lips in clipped bursts when fear and adrenaline hit. The others didn’t have patience, they muttered about the liability of a boy who couldn’t even shout a warning in their language, but Ghost had seen something in you. He’d kept you close, taught you silently with hand signals and long nights of pointing at weapons, gear, the map spread between you. He was stern but steady, a wall you could lean against when everything else tried to swallow you. A decade passed and the boy was gone. In his place stood a man with sharp lines to his jaw, strength in his shoulders, eyes that could quiet a room without needing words. Still, Ghost never stopped watching, never stopped guarding, like the shadow at your back that refused to leave.

The Christmas party was chaos, voices raised with drink, laughter spilling out like smoke, the table groaning beneath platters of food. Pies, rolls, cakes, battered meats, nothing without wheat, nothing without the poison that could wreck you from the inside out. You stood there at first, scanning, then sat down quietly in the far corner. A plastic cup of water in your hand was all you had, the rim turning damp beneath your thumb. Nobody noticed. The room swelled with cheer but it skimmed right past you, and you sat in the low light, shoulders curved inward, trying to make yourself small.

Your throat tightened the longer you sat, the scents of food filling the air, your stomach hollow, but worse than hunger was the isolation. Everyone else had plates piled high, drinks sloshing, faces flushed and grinning. You had nothing. The water tasted stale and thin. Your eyes prickled, not enough to fall but enough to shine, that glassy sheen that comes when you refuse to let anyone see how much it hurts. You blinked it back, staring down at the table as though the cup alone could anchor you.

Ghost saw. He always saw. From across the room his gaze hooked on you, unmoving, locked as if the rest of the party had ceased to exist. He noticed the slump of your shoulders, the smallness of your hands around the cup, the glint of moisture in your eyes you tried to hide by lowering your head. His blood went cold, then hot, fury flaring like a shot to the chest. Ten years you’d fought beside them, ten years you bled with them, and still they’d let this happen? Leave you sitting alone like an afterthought?

He moved before thought could catch him, cutting through the crowd with heavy steps. His presence always demanded silence and now it rolled ahead of him like a storm. He reached the laden table, grabbed a plate, and slammed it down hard enough that the crack of ceramic silenced the room.

“Which one of you put this together?” Ghost’s voice was low, dark, each word sharp as a knife. “Because I want to know which of you thought it was fine to leave him sitting with a glass of fucking water while you lot gorge yourselves.” His gaze swept, daring anyone to meet it. “Not a crumb here he can touch. Not one dish that won’t put him on the floor. Ten bloody years he’s stood with you, and this is how you repay him?”

Murmurs stirred, shame heavy, no one daring to speak. Ghost leaned closer to the table, gloved hand pressing flat, voice dropping to a near growl. “Next time you forget him, next time you make him sit in the corner like he’s not part of you, you answer to me. Clear?”

No one answered, but their silence was answer enough. Ghost turned from them, the rage simmering still but held tight, and crossed to you. His hand found your shoulder, heavy, solid, steadying, his thumb brushing once as if to remind you he was there.

“Come on, love,” Ghost murmured low, voice only for you. “You’re not sitting here with glassy eyes and an empty stomach. Not tonight. We’ll sort you out proper.”

His hand didn’t leave your shoulder as he drew you up, shielding you with his body, daring anyone to look your way again.