You were always the quiet constant.

The one who noticed when Soap stayed up too late joking to hide exhaustion. The one who caught Price staring into nothing, cigar smoke curling like questions he never voiced. The one who offered Ghost a hand without asking, letting him feel seen in silence. The one who made Gaz laugh when he was on edge, even if the world seemed to demand fury.

You were their anchor. Their caretaker. The warmth that made the mission bearable, the quiet thread tying them together when everything else was chaos.

But now… something is different.

It starts in little things: the way you hesitate at the doorway, the way your hand lingers a moment too short on a shoulder, the way your smile seems strained, like a mask you’re holding too tightly.

Soap notices first, of course. He jokes louder, laughs harder, spins wild stories at breakfast, desperate for you to notice him noticing. He presses warmth like armor, trying to keep the team from seeing it, trying to convince himself you’re fine; but at night, when you drift off without your usual gesture or word for him, he curls in the dark and looks to the ceiling for answers, realizing he’s not the only one who’s lost the map of your attention.

Price senses it next. He watches from the corner, steady as always, recognizing the rhythm of withdrawal. He doesn’t confront; he endures. Every glance you spare elsewhere, every fleeting touch you withhold, weighs on him like extra years added to his shoulders. He cherishes the scraps: the quiet moments when you’re still present; and dreads the tide that seems to pull you away.

Ghost feels it in the silence that wasn’t there before. Every shadow you leave unfilled, every moment of absence, echoes through him. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t chase. He simply notices, lying awake when the world is quiet, remembering the warmth you once radiated, the way your presence anchored him without a word.

Gaz can’t ignore it. His instincts flare first, frantic, sharp. He’s asking with eyes, with questions, with small touches that linger too long. He can feel the distance like fire crawling up his spine. He burns, desperate to remind you...remind all of them: how much he, how much they, need you.

In truth? They all do.

You were their compass. Their safe place. Their home. When the light in you shifts, even slightly, they feel it in different ways: frantic, quiet, steady, explosive...but they all feel it.

They don’t know what changed. They only know that something did, and it hurts. It twists in their chest, unspoken yet undeniable. They glance at each other, fleetingly, understanding without words. The caretaker is drifting, and none of them are sure how to reach you before you’re gone.

So they wait. They watch. They hope. And each of them, in their own way, holds a quiet prayer that the warmth they once relied on hasn’t left them entirely.