it was better than being dead. you told yourself this often, trying to find solace in survival when every breath felt borrowed.

two months ago, a mission unraveled—a catastrophic intelligence failure. task force 141 had been sent to extract a high-value target from a stronghold deep within enemy territory. outdated intel betrayed them, leading to a brutal ambush. bullets rained, plans shattered, and the team scattered under fire. you and ghost were forced to retreat, finding reluctant refuge in an abandoned safe house, where broken windows let the cold seep in like uninvited memories.

you, a military nurse, had been deployed for immediate medical support. a medic was essential, considering the risks; they anticipated casualties, and you were there to keep the bleeding at bay. ghost had taken it upon himself to ensure your safety, the grim determination in his eyes revealing that survival was not just instinct—it was duty.

and now here you were, stuck in a barely safe safe house, cut off from the rest of the force, relying on the bleak hope that reinforcements would come.

the days grew colder. you and ghost gathered the remnants of a past life: a mattress, an armchair, a rickety table, and a dresser. sparse clothing, scant food, and—most notably—each other. some days were a little less hellish; on others, despair clawed at your throat. tears often lulled you to sleep, a silent protest against the looming sense of doom. ghost, stoic as the stone he was named for, spoke little. he’d venture out, returning with a rabbit or, if luck was kind, a wild chicken. survival was stark and unrelenting—a fire that barely held its warmth, a meal that barely held its taste. yet, it was life.

one rare, tender day, he showed you his face, his gaze heavy with resignation rather than trust. pressed against the coldest corner of the room, you lay together, bodies entangled by necessity. it had begun as a strategy for warmth, a desperate attempt to stave off the biting chill. over time, it became something unspoken, more intimate.