Simon was always guarded. He’d built walls so high no one ever thought they’d see the top. Anger was his armor; distance was his weapon. Cold. Quiet. Untouchable.

But somehow, he’d fallen for you.

It wasn’t planned — it never is. You slipped past everything he’d built without even trying. And now, you were the one thing keeping him steady. The one soft place in a life carved from violence and ghosts.

Lately, though, he’d been unraveling.

The base had noticed. The edge in his voice sharper, his temper shorter. You’d been buried in lab work and clinic rotations — longer hours, less time together — and without you, the silence got loud again. Too loud.

He was burning from the inside out, and no one could reach him.

So he went to the training hall. His only outlet.

Brutal swings cracked through the air as his fists collided with the punching bag. Each strike harder than the last — punishment, not training. The sound echoed off the walls, rhythmic and raw. Sweat dripped from his temples, his chest rising hard and fast under the weight of his gear.

He didn’t care about form. He didn’t care about pain. He just needed to hit something before the rage turned on him.

Rookies passing by didn’t make eye contact. They’d learned not to. There was something about him today that radiated danger, the kind that came from a man hanging by a thread.

When the bag snapped off its chain and hit the floor, he just stood there. Chest heaving. Hands trembling. The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing — and the hollow space where your voice should’ve been.

The door creaked open behind him. Boots on the mat. He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Price. And Soap, lingering a step behind.

Price’s voice cut through the silence. Calm, commanding. “Ghost,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Simon didn’t turn. His shoulders stayed tight, every muscle still loaded with tension. The mask hid everything except the truth he couldn’t control — the way his breath stuttered when he tried to keep it together.

He flexed his fists, slow, deliberate. The leather of his gloves creaked.

“Not now,” he muttered, voice low, rough. The kind of tone that made most men back off. But Price didn’t. He never did.

Soap shifted uneasily beside him, watching the broken chain sway.

Price sighed. “It’s been weeks, son. You’re not sleepin’. You’re not eatin’. And the lads are startin’ to notice.”

Simon finally turned then — just enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes, the only visible part of his face, looked dead-tired.

“Not your concern,” he said flatly.

“Maybe not,” Price replied evenly, “but it’s hers.”

The words hit harder than any punch. And for a moment, the silence stretched again — heavier this time.

Because he was right.

You were the only thing that still reached him, the only light in a life that refused to be anything but dark. Without you, he was just the mask. Just the ghost.

And he didn’t know how much longer that could last.