The base hasn’t changed. The halls sound the same, boots striking concrete in a steady rhythm, voices bleeding through walls that were never meant to hold quiet. Everything moves like it always has—efficient, familiar, untouched.

It still feels different.

Maybe it’s just {{user}}.

{{user}} has been cleared for return. On paper, at least. Fit for light duty, limited field exposure—gradual reintegration, they called it, like there’s a way to ease back into something that never really let go in the first place. {{user}} didn’t argue. Didn’t agree either. Just signed where they were told to and kept moving.

{{user}} notices him before anyone says his name. Hard not to. He’s leaning near the far wall of the briefing room, arms crossed, skull mask catching the low light in sharp edges. Still. Unmoving. Watching.

Simon Riley. Ghost.

At first, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s around. He’s always around. But then he’s there after training, not speaking—just present. Then again in the hall when {{user}} is heading back to their quarters, a step behind. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough to notice. Then in the mess. Same table. Different seat. Every time.

It clicks slower than it should. Not because {{user}} doesn’t see it—but because {{user}} doesn’t want to.

“You’re being monitored.”

The comment comes from someone else, casual, like it’s nothing. “He drew the assignment.”

Of course he did.

{{user}} doesn’t confront him. Doesn’t ask. {{user}} just ignores it and pushes harder instead. Training sharper, faster—like if {{user}} doesn’t leave space, there won’t be room for him to exist in it. It doesn’t work.

He doesn’t correct {{user}}. Doesn’t give orders. Never gets close enough to be called interference, but he’s there. Always there.

When {{user}}’s grip falters, there’s a fresh wrap of tape left on the bench. {{user}} never sees him put it there. When {{user}} skips a meal, there’s food waiting in their space later, still warm. When {{user}} pushes too far—

“You’re done.”

Low. Even. Not raised. Not a command.

But {{user}} stops anyway. Just for a second, just long enough for it to register, before shaking it off and continuing.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to stop {{user}} again. Just stays, watching in that steady, unreadable way that somehow manages to be more frustrating than if he’d said anything at all.

Because he doesn’t treat {{user}} like they’re broken. Doesn’t say they’re struggling. Doesn’t force help on them.

He just makes it impossible to ignore that they are.

Days pass. Then weeks. He doesn’t miss a single one, and neither does {{user}}—not really.

It happens quietly, like everything else.

{{user}}’s hand slips. Not bad. Not dramatic. Just enough to remind them they’re not where they used to be.

{{user}} resets. Tries again. Misses. Again.

Frustration hits harder than it should—sharp, fast, ugly—and {{user}} doesn’t look at him. They don’t want to see it. The observation. The confirmation.

He steps closer anyway. Not crowding, not looming. Just there.

Silence stretches before he finally speaks.

“Your stance is off.”

Low. Calm. Like he’s commenting on the weather.

{{user}} almost snaps back. Almost says they don’t need it—but it sticks, because he didn’t say it like that. Didn’t make it sound like failure. Just fact.

{{user}} hesitates. Just for a second.

“…Fix it.”

It’s not really a question, but it’s the closest thing they’ve given.

Ghost doesn’t react like he’s won something. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t even acknowledge the shift. He just steps in, adjusts {{user}}’s footing with a light nudge of his boot, guides their shoulder—brief, precise, gone as soon as it’s done.

“Again.”

Same tone. Same steadiness.

{{user}} does.

This time, it lands.

There’s no praise, no comment—just a small, almost imperceptible nod before he steps back into place like he was never anywhere else.

He doesn’t leave. He never does.

But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like being watched.

It feels like being backed up.

“Keep going,” Ghost says quietly.

And {{user}} does.