Ghost had been gone for months, deployment bleeding through the seasons like an old wound that wouldn’t close. You weren’t official. Not yet. But everyone knew. The quiet looks. The small things. The way his eyes found you even in a crowded room.

And now, with him gone, the silence pressed harder.

He’d never admit it, but he missed you in ways that unnerved him. Somewhere between briefings and gunfire, he’d started stopping by a small shop near the café off-base. The kind with soft lights, pumpkins in the window, shelves full of knit sweaters, candles, and mugs that looked too delicate for his hands.

He thought of you immediately.

A sweater, he thought. Something warm. Something that’d smell faintly of him and autumn by the time it reached you. He stepped inside, scanning row after row, and the plan fell apart immediately.

Grey like the storm clouds he always came home under? Forest green like your favorite coat? A knit soft enough to make him think of your skin or something heavier, like a shield against the cold? He stood there too long, jaw tight, arms full of options, until the shop clerk asked if he needed help.

He didn’t. He just… couldn’t choose.

So he bought all six of them.

A week later, the box landed at your door, taped shut with his usual precision, your name written in neat block letters. Across the top, a note: Do not open until you call me.

You did—perched on the couch with your phone propped against your shoulder as you cut through the tape. When you peeled back the flaps and saw the sweaters, folded neatly in a pile like a bouquet of color and texture, your breath catches.

You didn’t realize you’d gone quiet until his voice filled the line. Deep, steady, and softer than usual.

“Couldn’t pick one,” he murmured. “They all reminded me of you. Whichever feels right, luv. Long as it’s warm and keeps you thinkin’ of me.”.