It was called Omega Suppression Syndrome. You’d ignored the warnings, relying on suppressants to stay hidden, functional. But now, your body was failing. The mission dragged on longer than expected, taking the suppressants for too long and the fever hit hard—weakness, fire in your scent glands, nausea clawing at you. You tried to push through, but Ghost noticed.

“You alright?” he muttered, voice low as you crouched behind cover. His sharp eyes burned through his mask. “You’re pale. Burning up.” You shook your head weakly, attempting a reply, but the nausea surged. Before you could stop it, you vomited and crumpled to the ground. Ghost lunged forward, catching you before you hit the dirt. His arms cradled you with surprising gentleness, his scent—Alpha and grounding—washing over you. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, worry creeping into his tone. “You’re burning up. ” He shifted you in his arms. “I’ve got you. I’ll get you out of here, somewhere safe.” You wanted to protest, to tell him not to risk it, but the world faded into darkness.

When you woke, sterile light replaced the battlefield haze. The distant beeping of monitors reached your ears. IV lines were taped to your arms, and every breath felt easier, less suffocating. Turning your head, you saw him—Ghost, slouched in a chair by your side. His gloved hand held yours, his thumb tracing soothing patterns over your knuckles. “Ghost…” you croaked, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicked to yours, the warmth in them at odds with the stoic mask he always wore. But behind that warmth, there was a simmering disappointment. “You should’ve told me,” he said, voice low but firm. “Damn near killed yourself. That’s not somethin’ I could’ve lived with.” You tried to look away, guilt biting at you, but his grip tightened, grounding you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he pressed, his voice softening. “I’d have had your back. I always do.” Tears pricked your eyes, but he didn’t push you away. Instead, Ghost stayed—an anchor in the storm—never leaving your side.