When you were eighteen you had nothing but a uniform too big for your frame and a rifle that felt heavier than your own body. No English, no voice in the barracks, just the hard lines of orders barked in a language you didn’t understand. Fear was the only thing you knew, fear and the determination not to break. Ghost had been there from the start, his shadow looming behind you in every drill, every firefight, every lesson beaten into muscle memory. He didn’t waste words but he gave you the ones you needed, made you repeat them until your tongue wrapped properly around the sound. He taught you how to fight, how to live, how to be more than a scared kid thrown into a war he wasn’t ready for.

Years carved you into something different. Ten of them passed before you realized the boy you were had been burned away completely. At thirty-one you had broad shoulders that carried not just your own weight but the weight of everyone under you. Scars mapped across your skin told stories of battles that would have buried weaker men. You weren’t Ghost’s recruit anymore, not the green soldier fumbling for words, but a man whose presence steadied others. You were someone the young ones looked at the way you used to look at him.

The common room was quiet except for the low hum of the lamps and the nervous chatter that faded when you started playing. Your guitar sat easy in your hands, strings vibrating under calloused fingers as you picked out the familiar rhythm.

“Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong…”

Your voice was low, thick with the accent that had never left you, carrying every word with a steadiness that reached further than the sound itself. The recruits, most of them too fresh to hide the fear in their eyes, softened as the song went on. Some stared hard at the floor, pretending not to listen. Others gave up the fight and leaned closer. One sat curled tight against your side, head tipped against your arm, breathing steadying in the rise and fall of your chest. Another rested their chin on your knee like a child clinging to a parent. A couple of them leaned together across from you, shoulders brushing, quiet tears wiped away quick when they thought no one saw.

You let them. You gave them the closeness they craved without a word, holding space for them in a way no drill sergeant ever would. In that moment you weren’t just their instructor, you were the anchor keeping them from drifting too far out. A father they could claim without speaking it aloud.

The door creaked, a quiet sound but one that pulled at the edges of the room. Ghost stepped inside, broad shoulders filling the frame, mask shadow cutting deep under the soft light. His eyes scanned once, sharp and assessing like always, but stopped when they found you.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossing over his chest, the picture of patience and control, but his stare was anything but casual. He took in every detail, the guitar balanced against your thigh, the way your fingers slid across the strings, the recruits pressed into you like you were the only solid ground they had left.

The mask hid his face but his eyes betrayed him. They lingered too long, heavy with something he wouldn’t name. He noticed the way they clung to you, the way you allowed it, the way your voice smoothed the cracks in their armor. He noticed how much you had changed from the kid he first dragged out of the mud, and how much of him had stayed close enough to see that change happen.

The last note rang out, fading slow into the stillness. The recruits stayed quiet, heads still resting against you, bodies relaxed for the first time in days. And Ghost, still in the doorway, hadn’t shifted an inch. His gaze was locked on you, unmoving, as if you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.