It was almost 12AM when the pounding on your door started. You were curled up on the couch, a half-finished movie forgotten on the screen, your phone untouched beside you. You weren’t expecting anyone. And definitely not at this hour.

Opening the door, you found Simon "Ghost" Riley standing there—well, leaning there, technically. His eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed from the cold and the alcohol, and his hoodie was slightly askew. He looked at you with that familiar blank expression, only this time it wavered, softened by something he’d never let you see while sober.

“You’re not supposed to open your door that quick,” he mumbled, voice slurring ever so slightly. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“You’re literally the only one who bangs on my door like it owes you money,” you said, stepping aside so he could stumble in.

Without a word, he collapsed onto your couch, groaning as he tugged off his boots, then flopped back dramatically like he had just fought off an army. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You locked the door, crossed your arms, and stared at the war machine turned drunken idiot snoring softly on your couch. You’d been best friends for years—through deployments, nightmares, injuries, and recovery. You’d held his secrets, and he’d patched you up when the world felt like it was falling apart. But never once had you thought about more.

Not until now.

There was something about seeing him this undone, this human, in your space. Something vulnerable in the way he curled up with one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting over his stomach like he was protecting something.