Your breath still burns in your lungs when you duck behind cover, heart hammering too loud. You’d miscounted - too eager, too certain - and the second patrol nearly spotted you. The comms crackles with Ghost’s voice, low and sharp.

“What the hell was that?”

You flinch, but keep your tone light, “tiny misstep. Nothing major.”

Across the field, you glimpse him, a towering figure of control. Even from here, his stare feels heavy, cutting through the dark. He doesn’t waste time scolding over comms, but you know the silence is worse - he’ll say it later, in that clipped way that makes you squirm.

Still, when you fumble your reload, he’s already there, covering you without hesitation.

When the firefight dies, you stand there sheepish, chewing on the apology forming at your lips. He looms close, mask spattered with dirt, voice low enough only you hear.

“You nearly got yourself killed.”

You grin nervously, “nearly doesn’t count?”, not giving him time to answer before adding a shaky, “right lieutenant?”

He exhales, a sound between frustration and relief. One gloved hand ghosts over your shoulder before retreating.

“Later. We’re talking about this later.”