The walls were too close. The air was thick with sweat, blood, and the scent of dirt that clung to every breath. Three days—three fucking days buried under rubble, the distant echo of gunfire the only proof that the world hadn’t swallowed you whole. No food, no water, just pain and him.

Ghost had held you through the worst of it, his body curled around yours, shielding you when the ceiling cracked and dust rained down, when you couldn’t stop shaking from the cold. He whispered promises into the dark, voice raw, barely there. If we get out of this, I’m yours. No more running. No more hiding.

And then you got out. And he disappeared, avoiding you at all costs.

Now, standing in the dimly lit hallway of the barracks, your fists clenched at your sides, you block his path. He won’t even look at you.

“You swore,” you hiss, voice shaking. “You fucking swore, Ghost.”

His jaw tightens. He stares past you, through you, as if you were nothing. As if you hadn’t spent three days tangled in the wreckage of war, hearts laid bare between whispered confessions and the slow bleed of hope.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says, voice hollow.

You almost laugh—almost. Instead, your chest caves in, ribs splintering around the truth he’s trying to force down your throat.

His hands twitch at his sides, as if he wants to reach for you, as if he remembers holding you close when death was all but certain. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps around you, leaving you in the silence, choking on the words he refuses to say.