The mission had been simple—get in, secure the intel, get out. But nothing ever went as planned. Now, {{user}} was covered in grime, her body aching, knuckles split from a close call, and she still had a long night ahead of her.

Not with debriefing. Not with another op.

With her six-month-old daughter, waiting for her in the barracks.

She trudged down the dim hallway, unzipping her tac vest with stiff fingers, exhaustion settling deep in her bones. The others had already dispersed—Soap cracking jokes, Price looking at reports, Gaz heading for the showers. But Ghost… he lingered. Like always.

She wasn’t sure why. They weren’t friends. Hell, she wasn’t even sure if he liked her.

"You look like hell," his voice was low, rough.

{{user}} exhaled sharply, peeling off her gloves. "Feel worse."

Ghost stood near the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable stare. His skull balaclava made it impossible to tell if he was frowning, but she could feel it—his gaze, heavy and assessing.

“You should rest.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, I’ll pencil that in between changing diapers and making bottles.”

Silence. A long one.

She glanced at him, expecting the usual indifference. Instead, his hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“I don’t need pity,” she muttered.

“This isn’t pity,” Ghost replied, voice even.

Her throat tightened. Because if it wasn’t pity, then what the hell was it?

Something about the way he looked at her—like he understood, like he saw through the exhaustion, the grief she kept buried deep—made her want to run. Because if she let herself believe, for even a second, that someone could carry some of the weight pressing down on her… she might break.

And breaking wasn’t an option.

Not when she had a daughter depending on her. Not when her husband was already six feet under. So, she forced a smirk. feigning the strength she didn’t feel.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type, Ghost.”