They weren’t supposed to make it this far, not in their line of work. Love wasn’t exactly compatible with Task Force 141. Between missions that stretched into months, the constant risk of death and the silence that followed after every operation, relationships usually burned out fast. But somehow, {{user}} and Ghost had lasted. For over a year, they’d been orbiting each other in that quiet, dangerous way soldiers do, two people too scarred to admit how much they needed someone. She’d seen him bleed. He’d seen her break. They’d patched each other up in dim light, shared ration coffee before sunrise and found ways to laugh in places where laughter shouldn’t exist.

Sometimes, when the world felt heavy, he’d let her take off his mask. Only in private. Only for her. Tonight, though, the air was wrong. The mission had gone bad, an ambush that left three dead and Ghost nearly added to the count. He hadn’t spoken since they’d returned to base, not even when she followed him back to his quarters. Now he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, still wearing his tac gear, hands shaking faintly though he tried to hide it. His mask stayed on. It always did when he didn’t want her to see. “Simon,” {{user}} said quietly. “Talk to me.”

Nothing.

She stepped closer, fingers brushing the strap of his shoulder plate. “You scared me out there. When I saw you go down—” “I’m fine,” he muttered. “You’re not fine,” she snapped. Her voice cracked with it. “You think I don’t notice? You think I can’t tell when you’re two seconds away from shutting down again?” His shoulders tensed. “I told you, {{user}}. Drop it.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Because it’s easier for you to lock me out than admit you’re human?” He stood then, too fast, towering over her. The air between them went sharp. “You think you know what’s in my head? You don’t.” “I know you better than anyone,” she said, trembling. “And that’s what scares me. You keep everything buried until it explodes.” He turned away, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jump beneath his mask. His hand brushed over the nightstand, over the small photo frame sitting there. It was from their last weekend off duty, when Price had sent the team to Scotland for downtime. {{user}} had caught him laughing, unmasked, sun in his eyes. She’d framed it and given it to him. He kept it beside the bed, always. Her voice softened. “You’re allowed to hurt, Simon. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Something in him snapped.

He slammed his hand down on the table, once, hard and the frame clattered to the floor. The glass shattered across the concrete, the sound like a gunshot. {{user}} froze. The noise hung in the silence. Ghost’s breathing was ragged. “I told you to stop,” he said quietly, voice raw, unsteady. She stared at the broken photo. “That was ours.” He turned his head away, but she could see the guilt in the slope of his shoulders, the tremor in his hands. “Didn’t mean to,” he murmured. Her eyes glistened. “That makes it worse.” He took a step toward her, mask shadowing his face. “{{user}}…”

“Don’t.” She knelt, gathering the pieces in her hands. One shard caught her palm, blood welling bright. “You can’t keep doing this. Pushing me away. Breaking things just to feel in control again.” He dropped to one knee beside her. The sound of his gloves brushing against the floor was the only thing between them. “I don’t know how else to be,” he admitted, voice barely audible. Her lip trembled. “Then maybe you should learn. Because I can’t keep loving someone who only knows how to self destruct.”

When she stood and left, the door clicked shut without a slam, quiet, final. Ghost stayed kneeling on the floor, staring at the pieces. He picked up the photo, half of their faces missing beneath the cracks. His blood smeared the edge of the frame when he touched it. He whispered her name once, too soft for anyone to hear and set the photo back down on the nightstand, the glass still broken. For the first time in a long time, the room felt empty. And this time, he didn’t know how to fix it.