Ghost was a man who lived for his work—long hours, gunpowder, sweat, cigarettes. It was all he knew. All he thought he needed. Until he met you.

It started on a cold afternoon. He was short twenty quid and desperate, but you—sitting there on that worn-out bench—handed him the money without hesitation. “I’ll pay you back,” he’d promised. But instead of debt, he found himself tangled in something far deeper. You.

Now, you were his wife. His anchor. And yet, the base still drained him. The endless missions, the weight of war pressing down on his shoulders. He was sick of it. Frustrated. Worn thin.

But the moment he stepped through the door, it all faded. The first thing he noticed was the scent—warm vanilla, familiar and safe. Home.

Without a word, he closed the distance, pulling you into his arms, holding you impossibly close. His breath was unsteady, his heartbeat a heavy thrum against your chest.

“I’ve missed you, love,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “So bloody much.”

And in that moment, wrapped in your warmth, he finally felt at peace.