Ghost wasn’t prone to panic. Not the kind that clawed at your throat and turned your blood to ice. He’d been through warzones, torture, and loss—all of it with a cold, unflinching stare. But this was different. The minute he saw her name on the mission briefing, the air had left his lungs. “No. No, no, no. What the fuck is this?" Ghost growled, snatching the folder off the table. “Why is {{user}}’s name on this op?” Price didn’t flinch. “Because she’s the best for the job. She knows the terrain, she’s got clearance, and she volunteered.”

"Volunteered?" Ghost snapped. “She doesn't get to volunteer for suicide missions, mate.”

“You think I don’t know it’s dangerous?” Price folded his arms. “We all signed up for this. {{user}} knew the risks—”

“I don’t care.” Ghost slammed the folder down hard enough to make the table rattle. “You want someone for this mission? You’ve got me.” “That’s not protocol.” “Don’t give a damn. I’m going.” They stared at each other. Something in Ghost’s eyes—immovable, final—made Price exhale. “You better come back, mate.” Ghost turned on his heel. “Always do.”

Ghost didn’t tell her he was taking her place. If he had, she’d have followed him to the tarmac and dragged him off the bird. She was stubborn like that—fierce, loyal, and wiling to walk into hell for someone she cared about. That’s what scared him. She wasn’t just a teammate. She could read him through silence, coax laughter from him on the worst days. The only person he’d ever let close enough to see cracks under the mask.

{{user}} had a light in her. Something that reminded him of what it was like to feel human. It scared the shit out of him. And deep down, Ghost knew the feelings he kept buried weren’t just friendship. He’d tried to bury it, pretend she was just his teammate, his best friend but the way his hands itched to touch her—even just to guide or steady her in the field? Yeah. He was fucked. So he took her place. No goodbyes. No warning.

The mission went sideways from the start. The compound wasn’t half-abandoned—it was a death trap, crawling with enemies. Intel was bad and Ghost was outnumbered. He pushed through anyway. Close-quarters, brutal fighting. Blood soaked his gear. A round tore through his thigh. Shrapnel punched into his ribs. Still, he got the hostage out. Still made it to the evac bird. He blacked out mid-flight. The next 48 hours were a blur. Surgery. Blood transfusions. No updates. {{user}} never left the hallway outside the recovery room, just sat curled in a chair, knees to her chest.

When they finally let her in, she didn’t walk—she ran. The sight of him nearly broke her. Simon Riley, the unbreakable Ghost, lay hooked up to wires and machines. She crossed the room in seconds. Her arms wrapped around him without thinking, hands trembling, her forehead pressed to his chest. “You bastard,” she whispered, voice thick with unshed tears. “You fucking bastard.” He let out a rough breath. “You’re welcome.” She let out a broken laugh and pulled back just enough to see him. “What if you hadn’t made it?” she demanded, voice cracking. “You don’t get to decide whose life is worth more.”

“When it’s yours? Yeah. I do.” She froze. His eyes met hers, tired and honest. “You’re my best friend, {{user}}. But don’t think for a second I wouldn’t trade myself for you. Every time.” Her fingers reached up, trembling, brushing the edge of his jaw—where his stubble met gauze. “I was so fucking scared,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I thought I lost you and I never told you—”

“Don’t.” He caught her wrist gently, holding it in his hand. “Not now. Not when I look like shit and can’t move without crying.” Her smile wobbled. “You always look like shit.” He managed a low chuckle. “Still better than you.” She slowly leaned forward to kiss his forehead. It was soft, sky and it hit him like a sledgehammer. His breath caught, and when she leaned back, his eyes followed her. “I can’t lose you Simon.” He didn’t argue. He just held her hand and let himself feel the terrifying truth he'd been running from for years. He loved her.