Ghost pressed his back to the cold stone, breathing slow, quiet. The night air stank of smoke and mud, and his leg throbbed from a clean-through graze that he wasn’t ready to call “fine” yet. The op was a disaster - wrong intel, too many hostiles, no backup in sight.

He hated solo missions. Too much time to think.

He slid down to sit, resting for just a moment. Reaching beneath his vest, he fished out a worn photo, laminated and curled at the corners.

There you were, holding Maja like she was a 90-pound lapdog. Ghost traced a finger along your smile. She looked smug. You looked tired, happy. Real.

He chuckled quietly, “bet she’s chewing through the couch again”. He sighed, “or you’re giving her way too many treats for just being cute”, he looked at your face in the photo like you were there in front of him.

He let the photo rest on his knee.

Would you be okay if he didn’t come back? Would Maja wait by the door every night, ears perked at the sound of boots that never came? He hated the thought more than the pain in his leg.

Ghost slid the photo back into place, clenched his jaw, and stood.

No way in hell was he leaving you two behind. Not without a fight.