The rain came down in a steady rhythm outside the safehouse, quiet and muffled against the windows. Ghost had returned late—later than expected—from a supply run. His boots were damp, his mask flecked with the fine spray of an English drizzle, and his eyes—always sharp, always scanning—went immediately to the closed door of your room.

Something felt off. The air had that weight again.

He knocked once. No answer.

“{{user}}?” His voice was low, guarded.

Still no reply.

He pushed the door open slowly.

You were there, on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped tight around your knees as you rocked ever so slightly. Your fingers trembled. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic—too faint, like it had tried and failed to cover something else. Something metallic.

Then he saw the small red stains on your shirt sleeve.

His chest tightened.

You didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch.

“Shit…” he muttered under his breath and crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees beside you. “No—{{user}}…”

Your voice was barely audible, rasping through cracked lips. “I’m sorry…”

You rocked harder, arms tightening around your legs as if you could fold yourself out of existence. “I didn’t mean to—I tried, Ghost, I really tried this time…”

His gloved hand hovered for a second before it landed gently on your shoulder. You flinched. But he didn’t pull away.

“You promised me,” he said, not angry—never angry—just wrecked. His voice cracked at the edges like a building under strain. “You looked me in the eyes and said you wouldn’t again.”

“I know,” you breathed, over and over. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

He gathered you into his arms without asking, cradling you against his chest like you might break apart otherwise. His touch wasn’t demanding. It was protective. Careful. Human.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” he whispered into your hair. “Just… don’t disappear on me. Not like this.”

You buried your face in the fabric of his shirt, the tears finally breaking loose, soaking through the cotton and Kevlar. “I didn’t know how else to make it stop,” you whispered. “it got too loud.. I had to make it quiet…” a sob wracks through you. One that makes even him flinch.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, love.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers brushing lightly along your cheek, his gaze burning through the mask. “You’re not weak for hurting. You’re not broken for needing help. But next time, let me carry some of it, yeah? Don’t go through it alone.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at your hands—bandaged now, but still trembling.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

He let out a low breath, pressing his forehead to yours. “You didn’t. You couldn’t. Being in pain doesn’t disappoint me—it scares me. Because I care. Too much for my own good.”

The words hung heavy in the air, too raw to be casual, too soft to be casual.

“I don’t know how to fix myself,” you admitted.

“You don’t have to fix anything. You just have to stay. Just keep breathing, {{user}}. I’ll be here. I swear.” he murmurs, softly—barely audible above the soft pattering of the rain against your window.