Soap had seen Ghost return from missions before, bloody, bruised, exhausted. But this time was different. Ghost looked hollow. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, were empty. His movements were mechanical, like every step took effort. Soap had seen that kind of exhaustion before, the kind that didn't just come from physical strain but from carrying something far heavier.

The team got a few weeks’ leave after Ghost’s return, and Soap wasn’t about to let the stubborn bastard spend it alone. Ghost looked like a ghost, and that irony pissed Soap off more than anything. So, he did what he did best, he confronted it head-on.

Soap's place wasn't much, but it was warm. The second Ghost stepped inside, the tension in his shoulders didn’t leave, but it shifted, like his body didn't know how to handle being somewhere safe.

Soap didn’t push. He gave Ghost space, but he didn’t leave him alone either. Made sure there was always food, always something to drink. Talked to him even when Ghost never responded, filling the silence with stories, bad jokes, anything to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

But Ghost…

Ghost barely slept. Soap caught him sitting at the kitchen table in the dead of night more than once, elbows on the wood, fingers pressing into his temples like he was trying to crush whatever thoughts were eating him alive. Other nights, Soap woke to hear footsteps pacing.

He didn't comment. Not yet.

But it got worse.

Ghost started flinching at small noises. The way he recoiled once when Soap clapped him on the back after making him a meal..that wasn't right. The distant way Ghost stared at nothing for minutes at a time. The exhaustion weighing down every movement, every breath.

Soap snapped.

One night, after catching Ghost sitting on the balcony alone, hands clenched into fists on his thighs, Soap had enough.

"Ye don’t get to rot away in my house, Simon."