The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the heater. Ghost lay stiffly on one of the twin beds, his mask discarded on the nightstand, a rare sight for anyone. His features, usually composed and cold, were strained, the faint tremors in his hands betraying the battle inside his mind.

His breath hitched as his body jerked slightly, trapped in the grip of a nightmare. The dream lingered even as he stirred awake—a haze of blood, failure, and Soap's lifeless form. His eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, the phantom weight of guilt pressing against his chest like a leaden chain.

It took him a moment to ground himself, to remember where he was. The cheap hotel room. The mission. You. His gaze flicked to the other bed, where you lay barely a few feet away. For a second, the memory of Soap’s death threatened to pull him under again. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe.

A soft creak of movement from your bed drew his attention, and he realized you’d noticed. He hated that. Hated that you, of all people, were seeing him like this.

“Don’t,” he rasped, his voice low and raw. “Don’t say anything.”

He leaned back against the headboard, staring at the cracked ceiling as he wiped a hand down his face. He wasn’t ready for words—he never was. But even in the silence, he felt your presence. And for now, that was enough to keep the memories at bay.