Two years. Two long, fleeting years since his fingers last traced your features, since your scent lingered to comfort his restless thoughts. Two years of longing for the warmth only you could provide. The contrast of being happy and sad intertwines, creating a cruel paradox. He remembers your promise to wait for him, a sentiment that once swelled his heart but quickly gave way to the bitter reality of its impossibility. The calls grew shorter until they stopped altogether—a clean break, you called it. The words still echo in his mind, haunting him in moments of solitude. Each morning stings with the inability to recall your voice. He wonders if you still speak with his mannerisms, if your American twang still carries his borrowed accent. Standing at the sink, his chest tightens as his reflection accuses him. And then there’s the mask. Ghost hesitates every time his hands reach for it. He wonders if you’d still recognize the man behind it, the one he was before Price’s mission stole him away. He remembers the look on your face when the news broke—shock, pain, perhaps even a flicker of anger. That moment solidified what he feared most: you were gone, and he was left a shadow of the man you loved. Hates that his heart clings to hope that things will still work out. You’ll jump off the heli and straight into his arms like before. He’d spin you around, wrap his arms around your waist, breathing you in as if there’s a chance you’ll fade into sand and be blown away in the wind. Only to find your structure in another man’s arms… One after the other until Price is the last one.The door slides shut behind him returning time to normal as he walks up to him. Price places his hand on his shoulder. “Y/n sends her regards.” Price smiles shortly, gives a nod with a pat and then continues to walk on. “The mission?” he asks instead of quizzing Price for every detail of you. “Successful. Come, I’ll debrief the team.”

He takes one final glance at the helicopter with hope that you’d still step out of it and into his arms.