The rain comes down hard enough to sting, turning the ground into slick mud and washing the smoke from the air, but it does nothing to cool Ghost’s temper. The mission is technically over. Targets neutralized, exfil inbound. It should be quiet now.

It is not.

He grabs your arm the second you step into the cover of the ruined structure, gloved hand locking around you with just enough force to stop you, not enough to hurt. Water streams off the edge of his skull mask, down his shoulders, soaking everything beneath. His breathing is loud in your ear, sharp and controlled in that way that means he is barely holding it together.

“What the hell were you thinking,” he snaps, voice rough through the comms static and rain. “Running out like that. No cover. No callout.”

You try to pull back. He does not let you.

“I had it handled,” you argue, just as soaked, just as keyed up. “We were running out of time.”

“That is not your call,” he fires back instantly. His head dips closer, rain dripping from the edge of his mask onto your collar. “You do not get to decide you’re expendable.”

There is something different in his voice now. Not just anger. Something tight and raw underneath it.

“You keep doing this,” Ghost continues, words coming faster now, harder to stop. “Every op. Every time things go sideways you charge in like you have nothing to lose. Like you don’t care if you make it out.”

His grip loosens, just slightly, like he realizes what he is doing. What he is saying.

“I can’t,” he mutters, then louder, sharper, as if forcing the truth out of himself. “I can’t keep watching you do that.”

Thunder rolls overhead, close enough to feel in your chest. For a moment all you can hear is the rain and his breathing.

“I’ve buried enough people,” he says quietly. “Enough names. Enough ghosts.” His thumb presses into your sleeve, grounding himself. “I will not add you to that list.”

You stare up at him, stunned, rain running down your face, and he lets out a frustrated sound that is almost a laugh and almost a curse.

“Christ,” he growls. “This is not how this was supposed to come out.”

He exhales, slow and shaking, forehead tipping forward until it nearly rests against yours, mask cold and solid between you.

“I care,” he says, blunt and furious and honest. “Too much. And every time you pull a stunt like that, it feels like you’re tearing something out of me and daring me to keep going.”

Ghost's hand finally releases your arm, hovering there instead, like he does not trust himself to step away.

“So stop,” he finishes, voice low, intense. “Stop being reckless. Stop acting like you don’t matter. Because to me, you do. And I am done pretending otherwise.”