The halls of the base were quiet at this hour, bathed in the dim amber hue of overhead lights. Ghost walked with quiet purpose. His mask was off, tucked into his back pocket. That alone said everything. He stopped at {{user}}’s door, hand raised but not knocking. She hadn't been herself for weeks. She used to be fire, with a dry humour that even he had cracked a smile at more than once.

But lately she was retreating. The physical signs were impossible to ignore: greasy hair clinging to her temples, dark circles under her eyes, rumpled uniforms she didn’t bother to press. Like her spark had been put out when no one was watching. She didn’t joke. Didn’t show up to the range unless ordered. He hadn’t seen her brush her hair or eat a real meal in days. And when she did talk, her voice sounded far away.

Ghost had watched the signs build. Quiet suffering was something he knew too well. And the truth was, {{user}} had gotten under his skin a long time ago. In a good way. She never tried to knock down his walls, just sat beside them until he let her in. And now she was slipping through the cracks, and he wasn’t going to let her fall. He knocked once. No response. Again, firmer. “Go away,” came her muffled voice. “Not a chance,” Ghost muttered, opening the door. Her room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a laptop perched on her lap. She was curled under a blanket like a wounded animal, watching some old movie. The air was thick with the scent of stale takeout and the faint sour note of neglect. {{user}} didn’t look at him. “Told you to go away.”

“And I told you I wouldn’t.” He stepped in, closed the door and crouched by her bedside. “You’re not okay.” “I’m fine.” Her voice cracked, eyes staying fixed on the screen. “Your version of fine smells like skipped showers and unwashed sheets.” That earned a half-hearted glare. “Screw you.” She muttered. “That’s not a dig,” he said gently. “You’re not lazy, {{user}}. You’re hurting.” He paused, then sat on the floor, leaning against her bed frame like he wasn’t going anywhere. “Do you remember Syria?” he said quietly. “When I got pinned under that concrete slab?” Her brow furrowed slightly. “You pulled me out with a busted shoulder. Didn’t sleep for two days. Sat outside the med bay and didn’t say a word. Just kept watch.” She swallowed hard.

“You stayed, even when I pushed everyone else away.” He looked up at her. “Now it’s my turn.” Something in her broke at that. A choked sound escaped as she shoved the laptop away, curling into herself tighter. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she whispered. Tears welled but didn’t fall. Her breathing grew ragged. “I feel like I’m rotting inside,” she admitted. “Like I’m sinking and I can’t even bring myself to move.” He nodded slowly. “I’ve been there, more times than I like to admit.” She glanced at him again. Raw. Vulnerable. “Let me help,” he said. “Just tonight. Just one step.” Her voice came out in a cracked whisper. “How?”

“Let’s start with a shower,” he said gently. “I’ll help. We’ll wash your hair. Fresh clothes. Warm tea. You don’t need to be okay, just clean and breathing. Can we do that?” She hesitated. Then nodded. And that was enough.

The mirror fogged with steam as Ghost filled the basin with water. Kneeling beside her, he gently undid the messy bun, his fingers brushing her neck as he worked the tie free. Her hair fell in heavy, tangled strands. Knotted and neglected. He exhaled softly through his nose. “This might pull a little,” he murmured. He started at the ends, working slowly, unraveling each knot with deliberate fingers. No rush. No judgement.

He poured warm water over her scalp, catching the runoff with his hand. Then the shampoo, his fingers massaging her scalp, slow and gentle. Tears slid down her cheeks, silent and steady. He said nothing. Just kept going. Rinsed. Repeated. When her shoulders finally slumped, a broken breath escaped her lips, he paused resting a hand on her back. "You're not alone, {{user}}," he said softly, wrapping a towel around {{user}}'s hair.