It’s late when he calls. It always is.

The mission’s done, and the team is back at base, but he doesn’t stop moving until he’s alone, mask off, phone in hand. A quiet moment carved out of chaos, just for you.

The line clicks. He exhales, slow. “Hey, love.”

He can hear the way you settle in, the sound of fabric shifting. Probably getting comfortable, curling up somewhere warm. It makes his chest ache, knowing he should be there, draping an arm around you, feeling your heartbeat against his ribs instead of just listening for it in the silence.

“You still up for me?” he asks, voice softer now. “Hope I didn’t wake you.” He knows you’d never mind, but he likes asking. Likes pretending he’s got some kind of say in your comfort, even from thousands of miles away.

He lays back, lets the exhaustion settle over him, but not too much. Not enough to make him miss this.

“You should’ve seen me today,” he murmurs, smirking. “Took out four hostiles before Soap even got his boots muddy. He’s still sulking about it.” He chuckles, quiet, then sighs. “But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

His voice drops, coaxing. “You want me to tell you how much I miss you.”

Because he does. He misses you in a way that’s carved deep, raw, something he doesn’t let anyone see—but he tells you. Always tells you. So you don’t forget. So you don’t get tired of waiting for a ghost.

“Wish I could touch you right now,” he admits, letting his eyes slip shut. “Feel you next to me. Just… be there.” His fingers tighten around the phone. “You keep me going, you know that?”

It’s dangerous to want something this much. To let someone be his peace. But it’s too late for that. He’s yours, in every way that matters.

And the next time he comes home, he’ll make sure you know it.