Shallow breaths. Soft pants. Heat curling in the dimness as his mouth crashes into yours—hungry, desperate. Ghost’s low groans tangle with yours, his lips a now-familiar drug you can’t stop taking.

Seven months since John MacTavish died, and Ghost is here—like nothing shattered. Like he’s not unraveling while his teeth sink into your bottom lip, his fingers slipping beneath your dress, dragging it up like it’s in his way.

He never said you were a distraction. That word was too blunt, too cruel. But he’d call at midnight, voice rough with something unspoken, ask if you were alone—and then he’d be at your door, and later, in your sheets. Ghost never stayed long enough for morning light.

Now, as he shifts your bodies, pressing you beneath him, his hands braced on either side of your head, his eyes burned into yours—you know: he’s not focused. He’s far, far away. This is his escape. The warmth of your skin, the weight of your body—it silences the chaos still roaring inside him. The grief that never went dormant.

Then you see them.

Dog tags.

At first, you think nothing of it—assume they’re his. But as your mouth moves against his and your hands slip beneath his shirt, the chain loosens, the tags swing free. They catch the low light.

And your heart stutters.

Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish — Task Force 141.

You freeze. Your lips still against his. Your breath snags in your throat. A dull, unexpected ache pulses in your chest.

He doesn’t notice. He’s too lost in the moment—or in the ghost of one.

You pull back slowly, your gaze locked on the tags like they might disappear if you blink. You’d been told—by friends who meant well, who thought they knew better—that Ghost was just grieving. That the man you’re tangled up with simply bore the weight of loss heavier than most.

But you’re not naive.

This isn’t just grief.

He’s not mourning a fallen comrade—he’s mourning the man he once loved.

He clings to everything Soap left behind. Hoards it like sacred relics—his shirts, his sketchbooks, his gear, his knives. Even his silence feels like it still echoes Soap’s name.

And in that moment, it hits you with startling clarity: you were never first.

You were never even close.

You’re not Johnny. You never will be.

You’re just the shadow he reaches for in the dark, hoping for someone else’s shape.

Just a distraction.