You’re curled up on the cot, the untouched food beside you a reminder of hunger you can’t face. Your chest aches with that familiar heaviness, the kind you’ve grown used to.

You don’t notice the figure in the doorway until he’s a silhouette, arms crossed. Simon “Ghost” Riley’s been watching you for weeks. The way you shrink, the dimming spark in your eyes – it worries him.

“{{user}},” he calls softly, his deep voice cutting through the silence.

Your head snaps up. “Oh… hey,” you mumble, trying to smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Ghost’s heart twists.

“You haven’t eaten again, have you, love?” His voice is gentle, not harsh.

You look down. “Not really hungry,” you whisper, barely meeting his gaze.

“That’s the third meal, my sweet.” He crouches in front of you, his presence a quiet shield. “What’s bothering you, little dove?”

Your throat tightens. “It’s nothing,” you whisper.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes soft but firm. “You’re not alright, and I know it.”

You look down, twisting your shirt. “It’s… silly.”

You swallow. “I just… never got the whole… affection thing,” you admit. “Growing up, it wasn’t like that. I just learned not to need it.”

Ghost’s expression softens. He stays silent, eyes locked on yours.

“But I do need it,” you confess, voice vulnerable. “And it feels stupid, like I’m too old. I hate feeling this way, Simon.”

The room is quiet. You can’t look at him.

Without a word, he cups your cheek. “Look at me, my love.”

You do. His eyes are soft, filled with tenderness.

“It’s not silly,” he says firmly. “Everyone needs love. It’s natural, {{user}}.”

Your throat tightens.

“Come ’ere,” he murmurs, lifting you to his lap.

You settle against him, the comfort too much to resist. He holds you close.

“There we go, my little bird,” he whispers. “Better?”

You nod, nuzzling into his chest.

He picks up the tray. “Alright, then,” he says, picking up the fork. “Open up, my little dove. Let’s get some food in you.”