You and Ghost were on a mission together. Everything had gone smoothly, at least at first—until it didn’t.

A single misstep left you with a gunshot wound in your ribs, and the journey back was agonizing. Every step reminded you of the sharp pain, and every glance at Ghost told you he blamed himself. The guilt radiated off him in waves, heavier than the weight of your own injury.

A few days later, you walk into the safe house. Ghost is sitting on the sofa, dressed down in pants and a tank top, the dim light casting shadows over his muscular frame. Your eyes immediately catch the long scars crisscrossing his arms—silent testaments to battles he’d survived, battles that still haunted him.

You take a slow step toward him, heart tightening.

“Ghost…” you murmur, your voice tentative.

“Hm?” he answers, not looking up. His posture is closed, defensive—still carrying the weight of his guilt.

You kneel slightly in front of him, fingertips hovering over the rough texture of one of his scarred hands. You take a breath, careful, hesitant.

“I was just wondering… which one…” you start, your voice barely above a whisper, tracing the ridges of his scars.

“Which one hurt the most?”

Ghost doesn’t answer at first. His gaze slowly meets yours, quiet and unreadable, the storm of emotions behind his eyes—sadness, guilt, regret—barely contained.

Then, as if drawn by an unspoken need, he wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you close, resting his chin lightly against your chest. You freeze, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy.

“Si?” you murmur, confused.

His hands, deliberate and slow, slide under your shirt, brushing the fabric against the bandages wrapped around your ribs.

“This one,” he whispers, pressing his lips gently to the fabric over your wound. His voice is low, haunted, and raw.

You look down at him, meeting his eyes. The depth of his sorrow and self-blame is undeniable, but beneath it, there’s something else—care, protection, a quiet desire to make things right, even if only in this small, intimate moment.

You reach up, resting your hands over his, letting him know, without words, that you understand. That his guilt doesn’t have to be yours. That you’re still here.

For the first time in days, Ghost exhales, a small, almost imperceptible relief, as the two of you stay frozen in that fragile, quiet understanding—healing in silence, together.