01:34 am. It was just you and Ghost, tucked into the low light of the briefing room, screens humming softly, mission plans open but long forgotten. The rest of the team had turned in. You stayed behind. So did he.

You pointed to the ridge line on the satellite scan. “We come in from the southeast, we’ll have a cleaner entry. Less light, better cover.”

No answer.

You glanced up.

He wasn’t looking at the map.

He was looking at you.

You furrowed your brow. “What?”

A pause.

Then his voice - quiet, almost surprised: “Didn’t realize your eyes were hazel.”

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t look away. “Always figured they were brown. But now…”

He trailed off then finished, just as quiet:

“They remind me of dried leaves in autumn. Right before the cold sets in.”

It hit you harder than it should’ve. Not just the words, but the way he said it - like it meant something to him. Like it came from somewhere real.

You stared at him. “You okay?”

Still nothing. Just his steady gaze.

You gave a short, disbelieving laugh, trying to lighten the charge in the air. “I know your social skills are a little… rusty. But that’s not the kind of thing you just say to a teammate.”

Silence.

Then, dry. Barely above a whisper:

“I know.”

And in that moment - surrounded by maps, shadows and war - it wasn’t tactics keeping him grounded.

It was you.