The first thing you remember is the cold.

It settled in your bones like a curse, long before the fire died out and the blackout swallowed the comms. You remember the sharp crack of the explosion—then nothing. Silence, smoke, static. The mission fell apart in minutes. No backup. No extraction. Just you, bleeding into dirt and ash, gripping your rifle like a lifeline and waiting for a call that never came.

Waiting for him.

You don’t remember passing out. You just remember waking up alone.

Two weeks. That’s how long it took them to find you—half-starved, fevered, barely clinging to the edge of reality. It wasn’t Task Force 141. It wasn’t Ghost.

It was a local unit. Strangers.

He didn’t come for you.

⸻

You don’t speak to anyone when they fly you back. Your body heals faster than your mind does. You train harder than before. You become something colder. Sharper. You stop laughing at Soap’s jokes. Stop lingering in doorways waiting for Ghost to look your way.

You don’t let yourself want anymore.

Not him.

Especially not him.

⸻

The first time you see him again, it’s like getting shot all over again.

He’s standing in the briefing room, mask and gear perfectly in place, like nothing happened. Like the last two weeks of your life weren’t soaked in mud and betrayal. His eyes meet yours—and for a moment, everything else vanishes. The chatter fades. The room shrinks.

You look away first.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not then.

⸻

But he finds you later, of course.

You’re in the armory, cleaning a sidearm with more aggression than necessary. You hear his footsteps before he speaks. Heavy. Intentional.

“Alky,” he says.

You don’t look up. “Don’t.”

“I thought you were dead.”

Your hands freeze.

“Don’t you fucking say that to me,” you whisper. “You didn’t even check. You gave the order to leave me behind.”

His silence is like a second bullet.

“I did what I had to,” he finally says. “We were pinned. Everyone was going to die if we stayed.”

“So you picked them,” you say, standing, facing him now, fury blooming in your chest like wildfire. “You picked the team.”

He flinches—barely, but you see it. The twitch of his gloved fingers. The guilt in the line of his shoulders.

“You would’ve done the same.”

“No,” you spit. “I wouldn’t have left you.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he steps forward, slow and uncertain, and you take a step back. That hurts him more than anything you could say. You can see it. But he doesn’t get to hurt.

Not like you did.

“I waited,” you whisper. “For hours. I listened to the comms crackle and die, and I still thought… I thought you’d come. You always do. You always did.”

“I wanted to.”

“You didn’t.”

“I couldn’t.” His voice breaks on the last word. “It wasn’t my call.”

“You are the call.”

The air between you crackles with everything unsaid. With everything you never said. The nights spent camped under stars, breathing each other’s air. The stolen glances, the rare softness behind his mask. The way his fingers brushed yours in quiet, wordless promises.

You thought you meant something to him.

But meaning something isn’t the same as mattering enough.

And he knows it.

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He just stands there, like a man who has already buried too many ghosts—and now he’s added one more to the pile.

You.

⸻

You don’t speak again for weeks.

He tries. Of course he does. Short attempts. Brushed shoulders. Lingering glances that land on your back, never your eyes.

But he doesn’t get to have you anymore. Not after what he left behind in that hellhole. Not after the way your name sounded in his mouth like a tombstone.

He made his choice.

And so you make yours.

⸻

The mission goes sideways.

Not like last time—this time, you’re ready. This time, you give the order to pull out, to leave the asset, to prioritize the team. You can feel his eyes on you when you say it, sharp and unreadable behind that mask.

Later, when the dust settles, he corners you.

“You hesitated,” he accuses.