Ghost never forgot the first day he laid eyes on you. Eighteen years old, rail thin, green as grass, standing in the middle of the tarmac with that oversized rucksack dragging your shoulder down. You hadn’t spoken a word of English, only staring around wide eyed and lost. Everyone else laughed, dismissed you, but Ghost saw something there, something worth molding. He had taken you under his wing without hesitation, pointing, showing, sometimes grabbing your shoulders and putting you exactly where you needed to be. Ten years changed you.

It had been a long day, the mission gnawing at everyone’s nerves, but Ghost’s broke first. The debrief wasn’t just stern, it was venom. His voice thundered through the room, rattling the walls. He had lost control the moment he saw you falter in the field, that split second that reminded him of how easily everything could be torn apart. So he screamed. “Jesus Christ, Montgomery, what the fuck were you thinking. You froze. You froze in the middle of a firefight, you could have gotten yourself killed, you could have gotten me killed, Price killed, the whole fucking team. You’re pathetic when you do that, you hear me. Pathetic. Ten years under me and you’re still some useless rookie.”

The words kept coming, sharp, brutal, shredding the air between you. His mask was so close you could feel the heat of his breath. He wanted to scare discipline into you, but the moment he saw your chest seize up, your breaths stutter too fast, your eyes go glassy, he knew something else was happening. But Ghost was too far gone, his temper still burning, so he didn’t stop. He watched your face twist, panic clawing its way up your throat as you struggled against memories that weren’t really there. Your hand twitched, your shoulders shook, tears welled hot and fast. Ghost saw the dam break but said nothing.

You turned from him before your voice could betray you. Silent, shaking, you stormed out, your boots thudding down the hall until the sound faded away. The door slammed. And Ghost stood in the empty room, still heaving, his throat raw from shouting. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Minutes bled into an hour. Ghost sat there with his head in his hands, every insult replaying in his skull, louder, crueler. He realized he hadn’t shouted to make you better, he had shouted because he was afraid. Afraid of losing you. Afraid of what that moment of hesitation could mean. He remembered the look in your eyes as you walked out, broken and betrayed, and his chest ached in a way he couldn’t fight down. He thought of you alone, shaking, drowning in panic, and the guilt sank its claws deep.

Ghost’s restraint snapped. He bolted up from the chair and nearly ran, boots pounding down the corridors with a speed that startled the soldiers he passed. He shoved open doors, scanning, his pulse hammering. “Montgomery,” his voice tore through the hallway, raw and unsteady, “Montgomery.” He was shouting louder than he ever had in his life, desperate, terrified. He reached your door and slammed his fist against it, over and over, the sound echoing through the barracks.

“Montgomery, open the bloody door. Please. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—” his words cracked, choked, spilling from a throat that had always been stone steady. “Don’t you fucking do this to me. Talk to me. Please, just talk to me.” His forehead pressed to the door, the mask damp with the heat of his breath, his fists striking the wood until his knuckles ached. He called your name again, and again, panic pulling him apart. He wasn’t Ghost anymore, not the feared mask. He was a man who was terrified to lose the one person he refused to let go of.