You’d never meant to cross paths with Taskforce 141. You were supposed to stay far from anything that smelled like war again. Russia had taken enough from you—pieces of bone, fragments of trust, entire years spent patching up men who rarely lived long enough to thank you. Retirement was supposed to be quiet. Clean. Predictable.

But one night the heavy hospital doors slammed open, and four men stepped through like walking wreckage—blood, smoke, exhaustion hanging off their bodies. And you didn’t hesitate. You had never hesitated.

Your hands were steady as you sorted their injuries, ordered stretchers, barked instructions at nurses who suddenly learned new levels of fear. You stitched, stabilized, revived. You wrapped bandages around broken ribs and burned flesh. You worked fast, clean, necessary.

And the whole time, a skull-masked man watched you.

He leaned against the wall despite the obvious pain in his side. He refused treatment until you glared. He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. His silence was loud—suspicious, assessing, razor-sharp.

“Name?” you asked.

“Ghost.”

You didn’t push for more.

When the night ended, when the team was breathing instead of bleeding, you left their room expecting never to see any of them again.

But the next morning, they were waiting.

Price spoke first. “We could use someone like you.”

Soap grinned, despite the fresh stitches. “A medic who scares Ghost? We’re keepin’ her.”

Even Gaz looked hopeful. They were offering a job—a place on their team, a field medic proven in one brutal night. You almost said no. Almost.

Then you felt that stare again.

Ghost stood behind them, arms crossed, jaw tight beneath the mask. He didn’t look impressed. He looked wary.

A Russian joining them? It scraped at every instinct he had.

On the flight to base, he kept his distance. He watched every move you made, every word, every tool you touched. You overheard him talking to Price once, quiet but unmistakable.

“She could be working for him. Makarov uses medics.”

Price sighed. “She saved your life.”

Ghost didn’t argue, but he didn’t soften.

Your first weeks weren’t easy. The base was cold, sharp, foreign. You worked tirelessly—patching Soap after a knife slipped, resetting Gaz’s shoulder, pulling shrapnel from Price’s leg. They trusted you. They joked with you. They treated you like part of the team long before Ghost even looked you in the eyes for more than two seconds.

But you noticed smaller things.

He always stood between you and doors. Never let you walk behind him on missions. His voice changed when he addressed you—low, guarded.

Once, after a raid gone wrong, he sat on your table with blood soaking through his shirt. You expected silence. Instead:

“You’re too calm around death.”

“And you’re not?” you answered.

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Difference is, I know what it makes people do.”

“So do I.”

He fell quiet, but this time the silence wasn’t distrust—more recognition.

Slowly he started giving you space beside him during briefings. Started asking your opinion. Started lingering a second too long when your hands brushed over his gloves. Not enough for others to notice, but enough for you.

One night, after a brutal mission, he came to the infirmary alone.

You looked up. “Injured?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw clenched. “Wanted to make sure you came back.”

Your pulse stuttered. “Worried I’d run?”

“No.” His eyes didn’t waver. “Worried someone wouldn’t let you.”

Something soft and dangerous settled in the air. Not romance—but something leaning that way, slow and reluctant, like neither of you wanted to admit the pull.

He stepped back first, hesitating in the doorway.

“You’re not what I thought.”

“And what did you think?”

“A threat.”

“Do you still think that?”

He didn’t answer—because the truth was written in the way he finally let his guard drop, just for a moment.