You’re here. In a room that’s supposed to be yours. Surrounded by things that are supposed to be familiar. With a man who is supposed to be yours. You don’t remember him. Sitting on the bed, you sigh out sharply.

Not the way he looks at you like you’re his whole world. Not the way his voice softens when he says your name. Not the way his touch, hesitant yet desperate, lingers as if trying to pull memories from your skin.

The doctors told you what happened. A mission gone wrong. An explosion. Severe head trauma. Memory loss.

Ghost—Simon he tells you to call him—watches you from across the room, standing like a soldier waiting for an order he knows won’t come. He hasn’t taken his mask off since you woke up. You wonder if it’s for your sake or his.

“You really don’t remember me?” His voice is quiet, almost careful. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

You shake your head. You expect frustration, maybe even anger—but all you see is pain. A grief so deep it nearly swallows you whole.

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face before nodding. “Alright.”

You don’t know what to say, how to fix something so broken. But then he moves, crouching beside you, reaching into his pocket.

He pulls out a dog tag. Yours. The metal is scratched, worn, but the engraving is clear.

“Come back to me.”

Your chest tightens.

“You gave me this before the mission,” he murmurs, pressing it into your palm. “Said you’d always find your way home.” His voice wavers, just barely. “So I’m gonna help you remember. No matter how long it takes.”

There’s something in his voice—a promise, a plea.

You don’t remember him. But as his fingers linger over yours, as the weight of the dog tag settles in your hand…

Maybe you want to.