Leave isn’t supposed to feel like this.

You pack light. Too light. The kind of light that screams you’re not staying long, not risking roots, not giving anyone enough to hold over your head. The team notices; but Ghost is the one who says he’s going with you. No explanation. No debate. Just a quiet, steady “I’m coming,” like it’s an oath carved into something holy.

The flight is silent, but not uncomfortable. He watches you the way soldiers watch doorways: carefully, respectfully, like he can feel the tension humming under your ribs even when you haven’t said a word.

When you arrive, the air shifts. You stiffen in a way he’s never seen, like every childhood bruise is stored in your posture. The house looks normal from the outside. Too normal. Like it’s performing stability for the neighbors.

Then the door opens.

Your family greets you with open arms and closed hearts. Their voices drip concern but ring hollow. Their eyes skim over you, searching for faults. Someone hugs you too tightly. Someone else starts talking before you even take your boots off. Questions, accusations disguised as worry, comments that carry history like rusted nails.

“Why didn’t you visit sooner?” “We never know what you’re doing.” “You should’ve stayed home like a normal person.” “You always make things harder than they need to be.” “We didn’t raise you to run away.”

Ghost watches every line hit you like shrapnel.

You warned him your family “wasn’t a family,” but he didn’t understand until now. He sees the way you shrink without meaning to. The way you fall into survival patterns: quiet, compliant, nodding because fighting back only feeds them.

He steps closer, a silent wall at your back.

The dying relative in the next room, pale, frail, barely conscious, is the only reason you came. You kneel beside their bed, gentle, grieving, heart pulled tight. But whispers fill the hallway behind you.

“If they cared they’d have come sooner.” “You know they only joined the military to avoid responsibility.” “Always thought they were too good for us.”

He hears every word.

He sees your jaw clench, sees the spark of pain you smother before it fully lights. And that’s when it hits him: why you never talk about home. Why you enlisted young. Why you shut down sometimes when people ask personal questions. Why you built yourself into something stronger than they ever believed you could be.

When you step outside to breathe, he follows. The door closes, muffling the voices but not the damage.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He looks at you, really looks, at the storm in your chest, the exhaustion etched into your bones, the grief pulling at your throat.

And something fierce sparks behind his eyes. Protective. Angry. Not at you. Never at you. At them. At what they made you believe about yourself. At the way they twist every version of your story until you’re the villain in a life you barely survived.

Ghost stands close enough for you to lean if you need to. Not touching... but present. Solid. A reminder that not every home hurts.

He doesn’t tell you what to feel. Doesn’t tell you to forgive. Doesn’t say “they’re family” like that’s a get-out-of-jail-free card.

He just stands with you in the cold, letting the silence settle without judgment.

And in that quiet, he realizes something else:

You didn’t run from your family. You clawed your way out.

And he’s going to make damn sure you never feel alone walking back into that fire again.