You didn’t need Ghost to translate anymore. But the truth was, he was still there, always close, like a shadow that never left your side.

The rookies noticed. Of course they did. Soldiers lived on gossip as much as rations.

“I didn’t know the Sergeant was gay,” one whispered during debrief, eyes flicking to where Ghost lingered at the edge of the room.

“Yeah, but—” the other leaned in, smirking, “I thought he’d be into some twink, not… Ghost. Fuckin’ hell.”

A quiet laugh slipped between them, nervous and mean. But when Ghost’s boots echoed against the concrete, that laughter died quick. His masked gaze swept the room, cold and sharp, and silence hit like a hammer. None of them dared to breathe too loud after that.

The rumors didn’t stop, though. They just went underground, spoken in corners where they thought neither you nor Ghost could hear.

Later that night, the hangar doors groaned open to the damp evening fog. Engines hissed in the distance, lights streaking weakly through the mist. Ghost was waiting there, broad frame draped in dark gear, helmet hiding every trace of expression. His motorcycle idled at his side, the low growl of it vibrating through the air. He didn’t move when you stepped out into the open. He just stood there, shoulders squared, gaze fixed.

“Monty,” his voice cut through the mist, low and steady, “ready to head home?”

You parted your lips to answer, but Ghost didn’t wait. He closed the distance in three long strides, his gloved hands gripping you tight before you could so much as breathe. With a grunt of strength, he hauled you up off your feet, gear and all, locking you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Ghostie!” you barked out, the nickname escaping unguarded as laughter ripped from you. Your arms clutched around his shoulders as your boots dangled, the sudden hold stealing your breath.

“Hmph— fuckin’ hell,” Ghost muttered, his voice muffled by the helmet, arms locked iron-strong around your back, “couldn’t take your kit off first?”

Your laughter came sharper, chest pressed tight to his. To the rookies watching from across the lot, it was unthinkable. Sergeant Monty — the hard bastard who tore strips off them in drills, who stood unflinching under fire — clutched in Ghost’s arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Is the Sergeant—” one rookie whispered, eyes wide.

“None of our business!” another cut in quick, face red, dragging him back. But their eyes didn’t leave you, watching the way Ghost held you so close, like no one else in the world existed.

“Beeg,” one muttered under his breath, voice hushed and reverent, like even he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Ghost finally lowered you back down, though his grip didn’t fully let go. One hand stayed firm at your waist, possessive in its weight. He leaned down, visor nearly brushing your cheek, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “Put your helmet on.”