The kid wasn’t even three yet. Barely knew what losing someone meant. But they knew something was gone. Someone. And that someone used to carry them everywhere.

Soap had a way of picking them up mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-anything—strong arms scooping up the little bundle of sleepy eyes and sticky fingers. They’d curl against his chest, cheek on his shoulder, thumb in their mouth. Safe.

After he died, the base got quieter.

But Ghost noticed the way small footsteps followed him. Not loud. Not needy. Just… there.

One night, in the middle of the gear room, as Ghost checked over his weapons, he felt a tug on his vest. Looked down. Big watery eyes. No words at first. Just a reach.

“Up?” the kid whispered, voice hoarse from a nap or crying. Maybe both.

Ghost froze.

That was Soap’s thing. That soft hold. That shoulder rest.

He didn’t say anything, just crouched slowly and lifted them. They wrapped around him like muscle memory, head tucked into the same spot they used to rest in—except it wasn’t Soap’s shoulder this time. It was his.

He stood there, holding them, one arm under their legs, the other across their back. The kid sighed, content, like the world made sense again for a minute.

Price walked in, saw them, and said nothing. Just gave a nod.

Soap was gone. But the warmth he left behind still lingered—in small arms, and quiet comforts, and a shoulder that maybe wasn’t his, but was close enough.