It had been ten years since Ghost first took you under his wing. You’d been eighteen then, a quiet kid who didn’t speak a word of English, jumpy, too soft for the field. He’d been the one to teach you, bit by bit, until you learned to fight, to think, to keep your head down when things got loud. Over the years, you’d grown into yourself. Stronger, sharper, someone Ghost could trust to watch his back. But even with all that, the old wounds never really healed.

You’d been sleeping in his quarters for months now. It wasn’t something either of you talked about. You just showed up one night, shaking, and he didn’t tell you to leave. He just grunted, shifted over, and that was that. When he left for a mission two weeks ago, the quiet hit hard. The kind of quiet that sank under your skin. The others tried to get you to eat, to sleep, but nothing took.

The common room sat still now, dim lights from the small Christmas tree flickering against the walls. The place smelled like coffee gone cold. The clock ticked too loud. Then, the sound of boots echoed down the hall. Slow, heavy, familiar. Ghost didn’t rush his steps. He didn’t have to.

He paused in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the low light. His mask was still on, snow dusting his shoulders, rifle slung across his back. His gaze landed on you slumped in the corner of the couch, eyes dark and distant. He stood there for a long moment, saying nothing, then finally spoke.

“Christ,” he said quietly, voice rough. “You look like shit.”

He stepped closer, each sound of his boots measured, careful not to startle. He stopped in front of you, close enough that his shadow crossed yours.

“Didn’t sleep again, did you?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Should’ve known you’d fall apart without me breathing down your neck.”

He crouched, ungloved hands braced on his knees, the familiar scent of gunpowder and winter air clinging to him. When you didn’t move, didn’t speak, Ghost’s expression softened just a little. He reached up and tugged the mask halfway down, revealing the faint scar cutting through the stubble on his jaw.

“Hey,” he said, quiet now. “Look at me.”

You did, finally, and something in your face broke. Tears hit fast, shaking shoulders, uneven breaths. Ghost didn’t say a word. He just reached out, hands steady, pulling you forward until your head rested against him. His arms locked around you, solid, unshakable, grounding you like he always did.

“Alright,” he murmured against your hair. “Alright, I got you.”

The lights from the tree blinked soft across his back. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, Ghost just held you, hand moving slow along your spine, saying nothing else for a long time. Only when your breathing started to calm did he speak again, voice low.

“Next time I leave,” he said, “you’re comin’ with me. I’m not dealin’ with this again.”

It wasn’t a joke. Not really. But the corner of his mouth lifted all the same.