You're the squad’s combat medic, patching soldiers up but refusing to get attached. Too many reckless decisions, too many injuries that never should’ve happened.

Ghost is the worst offender—always showing up wounded, treating pain like a mere inconvenience. He never thanks you, but his lingering gaze says everything. You pretend not to notice. You fail miserably.

He’s just another patient. Nothing personal.

Then one mission goes sideways. Ghost takes a bad hit—down, bleeding, unmoving.

Your feet move before your mind does, hands pressing hard against the wound. “You’re gonna be fine,” you mutter. Automatic. Habit.

Ghost smirks—weak, barely there. “Don’t lie to me, doc.”

“Shut up.” Your voice is sharper than you intend.

His breathing stumbles. You work faster. Then his fingers twitch—just enough to brush against your wrist.

Not an accident.

You freeze. His gaze catches yours.

“You’re scared,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He watches you, committing something to memory—maybe your face, maybe the fact that, for the first time, you don’t pull away.