The call had shattered Ghost’s world in an instant. He was sitting at the table with Price, Gaz, and Soap, going over intel when his phone buzzed. The tone in the nurse’s voice was clinical but heavy, telling him you had been admitted with a stroke. He froze mid-breath, the room going silent as his hand clenched the phone.

“Simon?” Price’s voice was low but firm.

Ghost swallowed hard, his jaw tight as he stood abruptly. “It’s him. Hospital. Stroke.” He didn’t wait for questions, already moving, and the others didn’t hesitate to follow.

The four of them arrived together, their boots heavy against the sterile hospital floor, a strange sight in civilian clothes but carrying the weight of soldiers ready for battle. The doctor stepped forward and asked if they were family.

Price answered first, steady and commanding. “We are. Tell us.”

The doctor exhaled slowly. “He’s stable. The stroke affected his speech, and he’s lost function in his left arm. There’s a long road ahead.”

Ghost’s throat worked but no words came, his fists curling until the leather of his gloves creaked. Soap shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair, his voice breaking the silence. “Bloody hell. That’s brutal.”

Gaz laid a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “He’s still here. That’s what matters.”

Ghost nodded once, curt, his eyes locked on the hallway where the doctor gestured. “Take me to him.”

When they entered your room the atmosphere shifted. The machines beeped steadily, your body smaller against the sheets, eyes fluttering open at the sound of them arriving. Ghost was at your side in two strides, dragging a chair close, his hand sliding carefully around your right hand. His voice dropped, rough and thick. “I’m here.”

Soap hung back at first, then moved closer to the foot of the bed, his usual grin absent, his brow creased. “You gave us a right scare, mate. Don’t be doin’ that again.”

Gaz leaned on the other side of the bed, his tone calm and practical. “We’ll help you through this. No matter how long it takes.”

Price stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his face carved from stone but his eyes softer than Ghost had ever seen. “You’ve still got fight in you. That’s all we need to know.”

You tried to form a sound, lips parting, but nothing came. Frustration flickered in your expression, your left arm twitching uselessly against the blanket. Ghost leaned in instantly, gripping your right hand tighter, his voice fierce. “Don’t push it. Don’t you dare think this changes what you are to me.”

Soap gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Man loses a bit of speech and one arm, but he’s still got you, Ghost. Poor sod won’t get a moment of peace now.”

That pulled the faintest spark in your eyes, and Ghost caught it, his chest easing the smallest bit. He lowered his head until his forehead almost touched yours. “I’m not leaving. Not today, not ever. We’ll get through this, even if I have to carry you on my back.”

The team lingered in the room, each man settling into silence broken only by the occasional machine beep. Soap cracked a joke here and there just to keep the air from getting too heavy, Gaz pulled a chair up and started quietly listing out small exercises he knew for stroke recovery, and Price watched over everything, steady and unshakable.

Ghost never let go of your hand. Not once.