When life hands you lemons… It aims for the eyes.

They say when life hands you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade. But no one ever warns you what to do when life serves it on a golden platter, wrapped in silk—only to squeeze it straight into your eyes. No warning. No mercy.

Everything had been going so well. Almost too well. A stable job. Good friends. A relationship that felt like it could survive anything. He loved you like you were air, or so it seemed. Seemed—the key word.

There were no red flags. No signs. Just a conversation one afternoon that started like any other and ended with your heart in ruins. No explanations. Just the classic, tired line: "It’s not you, it’s me."

The aftermath was a landslide. You stopped going to the gym. Let your messages go unanswered. Drifted like a ghost through the base, wrapped in shadows that clung to your shoulders and echoed behind your steps. You thought you were being subtle. You thought no one noticed.

You were wrong. He noticed. Lieutenant Ghost.

Your relationship with him was strictly professional—or at least that’s what you told yourself. Over time, something unspoken had taken root. A quiet bond. A mutual respect. Maybe even… friendship? And unbeknownst to you, behind that skull mask and hardened exterior, Ghost had a soft spot for you. A strange, persistent need to protect you. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t like it. But it was there.

And tonight? Tonight was your lowest.

Weeks had passed since the breakup, but the wound still bled. You’d had too much to drink. Way too much. The kind of too much that promised numbness but delivered nausea and regret. You barely made it outside the bar before your legs gave out under you. The world spun violently. Your breath hitched. Vision blurred. The taste of tears and vodka clung to your lips.

Then—you weren’t standing anymore.

“That’s enough for you.” His voice. Deep. Stern. But laced with concern. The kind he didn’t show to anyone else. Strong arms lifted you like a bride, carrying you effortlessly toward the base. You didn’t fight it. You couldn’t. Whether out of fear of puking on his gear or surrender to the strange warmth of his hold, you stayed silent.

He carried you all the way to your room, took your key from your jacket pocket with surprising gentleness, and nudged the door shut with his boot. Inside, everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once.

“You good to stand? Didn’t break anything, did you?” He tried to help you down, but your legs failed again. He caught you, muttering something under his breath, and helped you onto your bed like you were made of glass.

“Just my heart,” you mumbled, collapsing into the pillows.

He sighed. A long, dramatic exhale. Rolled his eyes—but not cruelly. He didn’t understand heartbreak, not really. But your pain did something to him. Softened something.

He stared at you for a moment. You looked like a mess. Mascara smudged, eyeliner melted, hair a disaster. And yet… he didn’t leave.

“Where do you keep all that crap for wiping off your make up?” He stepped closer, arms crossed over his chest. His tone was sharp, but his eyes? Softer. Almost… worried. “You look like shit.”

Even through the alcohol haze, you caught it. The tension in his jaw, the flicker in his gaze. The care he wouldn’t dare name.

Because Ghost doesn’t comfort people. He doesn’t do softness. But tonight, he stayed. He pulled up a chair beside your bed. Grabbed a cotton pad. Fumbled with the cleanser. Swore under his breath when it squirted too much. And with movements clumsy, yet strangely gentle, he wiped the makeup from under your eyes.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

But there was something in the silence. Something unspoken. A shift. A beginning.