{{user}} and Ghost weren’t the kind of friends that laughed loud or shared drinks in the mess every night. No, their bond was quieter—built on side glances during briefings, silent covers during firefights, and the occasional shared smoke in the dead hours of the night. Trust, for both of them, wasn’t given lightly. But with {{user}}, Ghost had let his guard down, piece by piece.

He used to steal his coffee. Ghost never complained. He used to call him “Simon” just to see if it’d annoy him. It never did. He was fire where he was stone—always pushing boundaries, testing limits, but never reckless. He had a sharp mouth, a sharper aim, and a way of making even the coldest mission feel a little less bleak. He was the only one who could get him to crack a dry joke, to lean just a little further into the warmth of being human.

And then he was gone.

It happened during an op gone sideways—deep in hostile territory, comms went dark, and the exfil team only came back with ashes. They searched for weeks. He searched for months. But eventually, HQ wrote it off: MIA. Presumed KIA.

He wouldn’t let anyone touch his barrack. Not even for reassignment. He kept it like a shrine—his jacket still slung over the chair, his boots lined neatly at the door, the photo of the squad still taped crookedly to the mirror. And when the weight of missing him got too heavy, when his chest felt like it might collapse under the silence {{user}} left behind, he’d slip into {{user}}s bed, curl up with his back to the wall, and let the darkness close in. It was the only place he could still feel close to him. Then, that night.

He opened the door like always, slow and methodical. But this time, something was off. His instincts flared. There was someone sitting on {{user}}s bed. He reached for his sidearm, tense and silent, but then—

He looked up. And the world tilted. “{{user}}?” The name escaped him before he could stop it. “Hey,” he rasped, the word cracking like a dry branch. He didn’t speak. Just stared, breath held like the wrong word might shatter {{user}}s image into smoke. His stomach dropped. His breathing hitched behind the mask. His vision blurred—not from tears. From disbelief. “No,” he said, stepping back. “No. This… this isn’t possible.” He shook his head, eyes scanning his face—thinner, scarred, eyes older than before. His mind screamed trap. His heart whispered hope.

“You’re dead. I saw what was left. They said there was nothing—nothing to bring back.” he whispered. “I made it home, simon” He staggered. His breath caught. That was it. That was {{user}}. And all at once, the wall he’d held up for so long cracked. He crossed the space in two strides and dropped to his knees beside his bed, reaching out like a man who’d been drowning. His hand found his—warm, solid, real. “You’re here,” he whispered. “You’re really here.”

“I told you I’d come back,” {{user}} murmured. “Didn’t think you’d be sleeping in my bed while I was gone, though.” he lightly joked, cupping his face in his own hands.