Ghost had been preparing for missions his whole life, but nothing prepared him for her.

The new medic arrived with bright eyes and a smile that didn’t belong in a place built on violence. She shouldn’t have fit here — and yet she did. She slipped right into the team like she had always been part of it. Always helpful, always soft-spoken, always laughing at things only he said. Even his driest jokes earned a grin that hit him harder than gunfire.

He tried to ignore her. He really did. But she kept appearing beside him — carrying paperwork he didn’t ask for, stealing seats next to him during briefings, brushing past him in hallways with that unintentional warmth that felt like sunlight.

It started small. Her shoulder pressed to his during meetings. Her fingers brushing his when she handed him reports. Her voice whispering “you okay?” after missions.

Each moment carved cracks in the armor he’d spent years building.

He was too old, too broken, too far gone for someone like her. He reminded himself constantly.

So when the day came — that disastrous day — when she stood before the entire team and confessed, trembling and brave, Ghost felt something inside him lurch so violently he almost reached for her.

But fear won. Self-loathing won.

He said nothing. Didn’t even look at her. He turned away like she was nothing.

He pretended he didn’t hear her choke on a breath. Pretended he didn’t see the way she ran out, fighting tears. Pretended it didn’t feel like losing a limb.

The following weeks were worse than any battlefield.

She avoided him with military precision. Switched to other units whenever possible. Didn’t linger near him. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even look up when he walked by.

It was like watching the sun set and knowing it wasn’t coming back.

The others felt it too — the empty chair beside him, the quiet medic who once brightened the room now barely speaking. Her absence clung to him like a weight. Every morning he looked at the spot where she used to sit. Every night he walked past her barracks without knocking.

He told himself this was better. He’d done the right thing.

But every time she kept her head down, he felt that lie unravel a little more.

And then came the briefing.

She stood in the back of the room, trying to disappear into the wall. Shoulders tucked in, gaze glued to the floor, hair hiding her face. She didn’t interact with anyone, didn’t greet the team, didn’t breathe too loudly. She simply existed at a distance he couldn’t tolerate anymore.

His jaw tightened with every passing second — as Price talked, as the team shifted, as she remained perfectly still like she wished she wasn’t there.

When the briefing ended, chairs scraped and people began filing out.

Ghost moved before he understood he was moving.

Straight through the crowd. Barely hearing Soap swear when he shoved past him. Barely hearing Price calling his name. His attention locked solely on her.

She didn’t notice him approaching until his gloved hand wrapped gently — but firmly — around her wrist.

Her head jerked up, startled, confusion bursting across her face. For a split second, he saw every emotion she’d been hiding: hurt, exhaustion, humiliation, hope she was trying to kill.

He felt it all hit him like a punch.

“Enough,” he murmured — quiet but sharp, the word scraped from somewhere deep.

She stiffened, breath catching.

He pulled her slightly closer, not enough to scare her, just enough to keep her from slipping away again. Her wrist trembled under his fingers — and God, that nearly undid him.

“You’ve been avoidin’ me,” he said, voice low, the growl beneath it barely contained. “Pretendin’ none of it mattered.”

He stopped himself before saying more. He didn’t trust his voice.

Her eyes dropped again, lashes shaking.

That hurt more than anything.

He leaned in just enough that his words were meant for her alone — but the entire room had gone silent anyway.

“I didn’t walk away because I didn’t want you,” he said, the admission tearing out softly, painfully. “I walked away because I didn’t think I deserved