The late-night chill wrapped around you like a second skin. You shouldn’t be here — standing outside the TF141 base long after hours — but your thoughts had been a tangled mess for weeks, a constant battle between desire and restraint.

Ghost emerged, his mask slightly askew as he rubbed the back of his neck, exhaustion etched into his posture.

“Ghost,” you whispered. He turned sharply, eyes narrowing before softening in recognition. “What’re you doing here?” His voice held that familiar low rumble, concerned and stern.

“I—” The words caught in your throat. You couldn’t find a coherent excuse. Couldn’t explain why you felt like you were falling apart every time he left the room. “Go inside,” he muttered, his tone steady. “It’s late.”

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Not when every ounce of you was screaming to close the distance between you and him. “I can’t do this anymore,” you blurted out, voice breaking. “I can’t keep pretending.”

Ghost’s eyes darkened, the air thickening with tension. “Pretending what?” he asked, though you knew he already understood.

“Pretending that I don’t feel this way about you,” you admitted, voice trembling. “Pretending that I’m not completely losing myself every time you look at me like—” You stopped, realizing the words were tumbling out unchecked.

Ghost took a deep breath, his eyes darting to the ground as if searching for some way out of this moment. “You’re too young {{user}},” he murmured, his voice barely audible, almost pleading.

He was trying to be the protector, the rational one, but it was killing you.

There was a long silence, each second stretching painfully. He looked at you, his eyes betraying the struggle beneath that unbreakable exterior. You didn’t know what to expect, but you weren’t ready for the way his shoulders slumped, the brief flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

“Go inside,” he repeated, his voice strained, like he was holding himself together by a thread.