#cod: ghosts

The last time you saw David Walker, you were eighteen and invincible.

Or at least, it had felt that way — sunlight in your eyes, the wind tangling your hair as you leaned out the open window of his car, a second-hand Chevy his father had gifted him after graduation. The air had smelled of sun-warmed asphalt and honeysuckle from the neighborhood hedges, the radio murmuring something soft and distant — Eagle-Eye Cherry, maybe. Logan had been up front, long legs sprawled out and arm draped across the window like he hadn’t a care in the world. You’d been in the backseat, ankles crossed, your bare knees sunburned and stinging slightly, laughing at something Hesh had said. Somewhere along the line, he had told you not to call him David anymore — only my teachers call me that, come on — and with a roll of your eyes and a grin you’d since grown out of, you’d started calling him Hesh. It had stuck, the way summer freckles and childhood promises did. You were a part of their lives, and they were a part of yours. Simple. Easy. Like the seasons turning over and over without you needing to ask why.

You had promised, as so many do at eighteen, that you’d never forget them. Not Hesh, not Logan, not the way their house always smelled like cedar and motor oil or the way you used to sneak sips of beer in the backyard under the string lights, hearts racing from the thrill of being young and unseen. And in a way, you hadn’t forgotten — not really. But when college came calling, you’d packed your bags and gone east without looking back. Then came internships, job offers, long commutes, and bigger cities with empty skies. The years passed, quiet as dust settling on the corners of a room you no longer stepped into. You hadn’t come back. Not once. You told yourself it wasn’t personal. You were busy. Life had moved on.

But deep down, you knew they were excuses. Flimsy ones, even.

Now, standing in the center of your old bedroom, those excuses felt heavier. Like sediment built up over time. Nothing in the room had changed, not really. Your dad hadn’t touched a thing — same faded green comforter, same scuffed desk with initials carved into the side, same corkboard hung above it with memories pinned like evidence. Your reflection in the mirror didn’t quite match the girl who used to live here. Your hair was different. Your shoulders carried something they didn’t used to. You looked — older, maybe. Tired in places you couldn’t quite name.

Above your desk, a collage of sunlit ghosts greeted you. One photo showed you and Hesh at Linda Vista Park, skateboards propped at your ankles, your arm brushing his without meaning to, his smile bright enough to turn your stomach. Another, more chaotic, caught both Walker brothers lifting you onto their shoulders, your limbs flailing as the camera caught all three of you laughing — genuine, unposed, untouched by time. And then there was the last one: just you, lying in the grass of their backyard, your cheeks flushed, eyes closed, the smile on your lips soft and secretive, like you were dreaming of something you weren’t ready to admit.

You stared at that one the longest. Because the truth was, you didn’t recognize yourself anymore — not in the photos, not in the girl who had once been brave enough to dream of something more than friendship when it came to Hesh Walker. You’d buried that version of yourself somewhere along the way, beneath obligations and good intentions and the endless forward march of time.

And now, somehow, you were here again — home, of all places — getting ready for dinner like no time had passed. The Walkers were coming over. Hesh was coming over. You smoothed your hands down your shirt for the fourth or fifth time, restless, trying to anchor yourself in the moment while your thoughts drifted to the past. Your dad had insisted on the dinner. Said it was long overdue. That Elias and the boys had asked after you more than once, that everything they knew about your life these days came from second-hand stories he told over beers in the garage, or those occasional texts you sent that barely scratched the surface. “It’d be good for them to see you,” he’d said. “They missed you.”

You hadn’t had the heart to argue.

Downstairs, the front door opened with a creak you recognized from childhood, followed by the unmistakable echo of laughter and heavy boots against the hardwood. Voices rose up through the stairwell, low and warm, like thunder rolling in soft over familiar hills. You paused at the top step, heart tripping, breath cinched tight in your chest. You didn’t even have to strain to hear him — Elias. That voice hadn’t changed a bit. Steady, calm, a grounding kind of thing. The kind you trusted even before you understood why. It made sense, really. He and your father had gone through hell together, side by side in places you never dared ask too much about. They were the kind of friends forged in fire, in far-off deserts and forests thick with danger. That bond had always loomed quietly in your childhood, sturdy and unshakeable.

And then — there it was. A second voice, then a third. Younger. Laughing. The same cadence, deeper now. Hesh. Logan. It knocked something loose in you, something fragile and old and still warm. For a moment, your mind flared with memory — your legs swinging off the edge of their back porch, bare knees scraped raw from summer mischief, BB guns balanced over fence posts, tin cans dented from poor aim and poorer bets. You’d grown up in their orbit. The three of you, always a unit. Hesh especially — David, back then, but he hated when you called him that. Said it made him sound like a substitute teacher.

“[Name]!” your father’s voice bellowed from below, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. “They’re here!”

Of course they are. You already knew it. You’d felt it in your bones before the front door even opened. Still, your fingers trembled slightly on the banister as you made your way down the stairs, trying not to let your nerves show. Every step was slower than the last, like your legs didn’t trust you to carry the weight of what this meant. As you rounded the landing and met their eyes, the world tipped just a little.

“There she is,” your dad announced proudly, one hand sweeping out toward you as if unveiling a secret. “Isn’t she something? My baby girl, all grown up.”

You wished he hadn’t said that — wished he hadn’t drawn attention to how much you’d changed, because now they were looking. And you could feel it. Elias, standing tall and solid in the doorway, smiled first — kind, weathered, the sort of man who had never needed many words to say exactly what he meant. Logan beside him, posture easy, cocky little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. And then — Hesh.

Your breath hitched so sharply it almost hurt.

Gone was the lanky teenage boy you remembered. In his place stood a man, lean and broad-shouldered, eyes sharp beneath the weight of a few more years and a face that had grown into all its lines. His jaw had squared out, rough with scruff, and those eyes — those stupidly pretty green eyes — hadn’t lost their shine. If anything, they were deeper now. He looked like the kind of man who could carry the weight of a house on his back and not break stride.

And just like that, it was all over for you.

You went to Elias first, because it was easier. Because your heart wouldn’t stop thudding, and if you met Hesh’s gaze too soon, you feared you might never look away. Elias wrapped you in a hug, one arm slung around your shoulders like old times, solid and grounding.

“Good to see you again, kid,” he said with a chuckle. “Your old man’s been bragging about you out his ass.”

You laughed, awkward, soft, grateful for the familiar cadence of his voice. “That bad, huh?”

He nodded with mock severity. “He’s unbearable.”

He was older now, of course, lines etched deeper into the corners of his eyes, a touch more silver at his temples. But his strength hadn’t faded. His presence still filled a room. Looking at him, you understood all over again how the boys had turned out the way they had.

Logan was next, and he didn’t wait for formalities. He stepped right up and pulled you into a hug before you had time to think. Taller than you remembered — how had that happened? — but still Logan, still easygoing, still that sparkle in his eye that said he was holding back some smartass comment just for your benefit.

“Still shorter than me, I see,” he murmured against your ear, his voice full of mischief.

You pulled back, rolling your eyes. “You wish.”

He grinned, shrugging. “I know.”

You couldn’t help it — you laughed, really laughed, and it felt like something old and sweet rising back to the surface. God, you’d missed him. You’d missed all of them.

And then, of course there was still Hesh.

It took you a second — no, longer than that — to remember how to breathe when his eyes met yours.

The noise around you dulled, your pulse rising until it felt like it lived in your throat, pressing against the base of your tongue. He didn’t say anything right away — he didn’t need to. That smile was already there, the one you knew too well, the one you used to wait for like a secret reward. Crooked and easy, nothing forced about it, all warmth and none of the hard edges that life eventually carved into people. He opened his arms without hesitation, inviting, like no time had passed at all between now and the last time you’d seen him. He hadn’t changed that part of himself. Still confident. Still open. Still the safest place you had ever known.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and so achingly familiar that it carved through you like sunlight through fog.

And you went. You didn’t even hesitate, despite everything you were feeling — despite how aware you were of the heat blooming under your skin, of the way your hands twitched slightly before settling against his shoulders. He pulled you in like he meant it, arms folding around your waist with just enough strength to make you forget where you were. He was warm. He smelled like fresh pine and the faint bite of smoke and something clean beneath it all. You could feel your heartbeat thundering against your ribs, and for a second you were convinced he could feel it too. His chest against yours, the air between you far too close, and God, how were you supposed to come back from this?

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he said softly near your ear, barely audible beneath the voices around you. Your fingers clenched slightly in the fabric of his shirt. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, that grin of his still lingering, tugging at the corner of his mouth like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be playful or something quieter. “Glad you’re home, [Name]. Really.”

You tried to smile but it felt like your lungs were too full. “Glad to be.”

The moment didn’t last — your father’s voice called on the way out to the backyard, a sharp, teasing complaint about steak turning to charcoal. You stepped back, needing the space, needing to move. Something in your chest ached, but you kept it in check, forced your limbs to keep moving.

You slipped into the rhythm of hosting, thankful for the distraction. The door to the backyard creaked open, letting in the golden spill of late-afternoon sunlight, and the air outside was thick with the scent of grilled meat and freshly cut grass. Your father stood by the grill, tongs in one hand, beer in the other, looking pleased as hell about the whole thing. Elias hovered beside him, laughing at something, his voice low and steady. It felt like stepping into the past — only everything had gotten sharper in the years you’d been gone.

You played your part. Beer bottles handed out, napkins tucked under arms, water glasses refilled, extra chairs dragged out onto the patio from the garage. You didn’t even realize you were watching Hesh until you caught yourself staring — until you noticed how easily he moved through the space, how naturally he opened the cooler for a drink, how he knew exactly where your dad kept the bottle opener. And Logan too — barefoot already, drink in hand, acting like he lived here. It hit you then, unexpectedly hard, that they had been here. That this hadn’t stopped just because you’d left. They’d visited, checked in, sat in your chair at the dinner table, probably listened to your dad’s stories and helped him fix that busted porch step you’d been meaning to get around to.

You were the only one out of place now.

“So,” Hesh said beside you, setting down a bowl of corn on the table you were arranging, his voice pulling you back. “What’s the verdict? Are you back for good or just taking a break?”

You blinked, surprised for a second, then gave him a soft, lopsided smile. “Something in between,” you said, glancing at him. “Needed a reset. Life out there got — loud. Thought maybe some quiet would help.”

Hesh didn’t look away. “Quiet’s good. We’ve got plenty of that here. You know, if you decide to stick around longer.”

His tone was casual, like it didn’t matter either way — but you could feel it. The unspoken question under the words. The thing neither of you were brave enough to ask directly.

You nodded, gently smoothing the tablecloth with your hands just to have something to do. “We’ll see.”

Before anything more could be said, Elias called him over — something about the heat on the grill flaring up again — and Hesh gave you a quick, two-fingered salute and headed across the deck with a grin. You watched him go, heart rattling in its cage.

The kitchen felt cooler when you stepped back inside, a relief from the heat clinging to your skin. Logan was already there, sleeves rolled up, rummaging through the fridge with the same lack of boundaries he’d always had.

“Where the hell is the pasta salad?” he muttered to himself, then perked up when he saw you. “Ah, there’s my favorite hostess. You’re doing great, by the way. Feels like a five-star joint out there.”

You raised a brow and leaned against the counter. “You mean I’m doing all the work.”

“Hey, I’m bringing this salad out like a true gentleman,” he said, holding it up with exaggerated care.

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Heroic.”

Logan laughed, cracking open the lid and grabbing a spoon from the drawer. “No, but seriously. This is good. All of it. You being here. Your dad’s been in a better mood, even my old man’s been cracking more jokes than usual. And Hesh—” He trailed off slightly, glancing toward the open window that looked out onto the patio. His voice softened. “Hesh’s been lighter since he found out you were coming back.”

You looked at him, the question in your chest rising unspoken.

Logan met your gaze and shrugged, casual on the outside but unmistakably sincere. “He didn’t say it outright. You know how he is. But I could tell. He’s been different. In a good way.”

You said nothing at first, just turned back toward the counter and gently stirred the potato salad, mind racing. Something about the way Logan said it — offhand, but not really — lodged itself under your skin. You could still feel the echo of Hesh’s arms around you, the way his voice dipped when he said your name.

Logan didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel the smirk forming on his face from where he leaned against the fridge. It radiated like heat. You tried to ignore it — focused instead on helping him dig the pasta salad out of the cooler, peeling off the lid with slow, tender care — but the second he shifted his weight and cleared his throat with a little too much theatrical innocence, you knew it was coming.

“So,” he began, dragging the word out, savoring it like a piece of gum he didn’t want to throw away. “You and my brother.”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

“What?” he said, holding up both hands in mock surrender, but the grin had already spread across his face. “I didn’t say anything. You’re the one sounding guilty.”

You finally turned to face him, brow raised. “Seriously, Logan.”

“Seriously,” he echoed, placing a hand over his heart with mock sincerity. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of adorable. Like one of those long-lost high school love stories. You’re back in town, he’s still single, there’s beer on the table and fireflies in the yard — it’s practically fate.”

You swatted him lightly with a dish towel, which only made him laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He ducked out of reach, cracking a beer with a grin. “Okay, okay. I’ll shut up. But for real — when are we catching up? Just you and me. I got stories to tell.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Good ones or ones that’ll make me regret ever knowing you?”

He sipped his drink, shrugged. “Bit of both.”

You shook your head, unable to stop the smile from tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Sounds about right.”

⟡

After dinner, the sky deepened into that soft, dusky blue that always meant summer was settling in for the night. Crickets started up somewhere along the fence line, the occasional bark of a dog floating from another yard over. The smell of grilled meat still clung to the air, mingling with the sweet perfume of blooming jasmine and citronella candles flickering low on the patio table. Your father and Elias had already migrated to the living room, where the familiar drone of the Padres game crackled from the television, their laughter low and full-bellied as they settled in for the night with fresh beers in hand.

Hesh reappeared at your side just as you were gathering plates from the table. He nudged you gently with his elbow.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was meant only for you. “You up for a walk?”

You blinked at him for a second, caught off guard by the question, but nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Logan appeared before you could even ask. “Already grabbed my shoes,” he said, tugging them on as he stepped down from the patio. “Like I’d miss this.”

You followed the two of them out into the street, the warm pavement still radiating heat beneath your sneakers. The neighborhood had fallen quiet, most houses dark now, porches empty, blinds drawn. The three of you walked down the middle of the street like you used to — shoulder to shoulder, silhouettes cutting down familiar blocks like shadows returned to their source. Hesh walked beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours now and then.

Without a word, Hesh pulled a joint from the pocket of his flannel, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tiny flame bloomed against the night, casting his face in brief gold before it disappeared again. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled toward the stars, the smoke curling up into the dark like a quiet spell.

He offered it to Logan first, who took it with a knowing look, puffing once and passing it along without missing a step.

“You still smoke?” Hesh asked as you accepted it.

“Sometimes,” you said, watching the tip glow as you inhaled. The warmth spread through your chest like a memory. “Depends on who I’m with.”

He chuckled, that same lazy sound that had once echoed across fields behind your house when you were all younger, wilder, laughing at nothing until your stomach hurt. The three of you passed it back and forth, slipping easily into that old rhythm. Stories started pouring out — half-remembered dares, broken fences, the infamous incident with a bottle rocket and someone’s garden gnome. Logan did impressions of your high school principal. Hesh recounted a camping trip gone wrong with a raccoon and a bag of beef jerky. You doubled over laughing more than once, the smoke blurring the edges of the night, making everything feel slow and soft and suspended.

Somewhere between the second joint and a retelling of Logan’s failed attempt at skateboarding down your old driveway, Hesh turned to you again.

“So,” he started, drawing the word out just like his brother had earlier, but with less teasing, more curiosity. “You seeing anyone? Back east or whatever?”

You glanced at him, then at Logan, who was watching you with a very obvious smirk and raised brows.

“Wow,” you said, laughing. “You guys are really trying to grill me tonight.”

“We’re just curious,” Logan said, all innocence.

You shook your head, the second joint burning warm between your fingers. “No. Nobody serious. Nobody worth bringing up.”

“Good,” Hesh said simply, his tone unreadable. He reached out and slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side as you walked. “Just checking.”

You let yourself settle into the space beside him, his arm draped comfortably over you, fingers resting against your shoulder like they’d always belonged there. He smelled like cedar and campfire smoke and something distinctly him, and you didn’t try to hide the way you leaned just a little closer.

The park appeared at the end of the block, tucked between quiet houses and a row of overgrown hedges. The playground was dark, empty, and half-lit by a flickering streetlight at the edge of the grass. It looked almost exactly the same — worn monkey bars, a plastic slide sun-bleached and faded, the swings creaking slightly in the breeze like they were moving of their own accord.

You stepped off the sidewalk without thinking and made a beeline for the monkey bars. Your body moved without asking, muscle memory kicking in as you hoisted yourself up with both arms and swung your legs up like you’d done a thousand times before. You climbed until you were perched at the top, legs dangling, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. The whole neighborhood stretched out in shades of indigo and silver beneath the moonlight.

“Still got it,” you called down smugly.

Logan was right behind you, pulling himself up in one clean motion, climbing after you with ease. “You’re not the only one with core strength,” he muttered, mock competitive, settling a few bars away.

Hesh came last, slower but more focused, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows as he gripped the metal rungs, the veins in his forearms flexing under the strain. He climbed like it was nothing, just to prove he could.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, tipping your head back toward the stars. “God. Boys.”

Both of them grinned, breathing slightly heavier now, and for a moment — just a moment — you felt like you were floating somewhere between past and present. Caught in a night that felt like it had waited for you to come home.

Logan sprawled across the top of the monkey bars like he owned the night, one leg slung lazily over a rung. The breeze carried the faint scent of weed and dust, cooling the sweat at your temples. From your perch, you could see the neighborhood stretching out in quiet darkness — familiar rooftops silhouetted against the sky, the hum of streetlights, the occasional flicker of a distant porch lamp. You felt wrapped in it all, like the past had pulled a chair up to the table and asked to stay the night.

“Man,” Logan said suddenly, tapping his lip with his thumb. “You remember Casey?”

You paused, brows furrowing slightly. The name didn’t register at first.

Hesh’s groan filled in the blank for you. “Dude,” he muttered, not even looking up. “Don’t.”

Logan ignored him, already grinning like he’d found an old wound and couldn’t resist pressing on it. “Wait, you have to tell [Name] about Casey,” he said, turning to you now. “Hesh’s girlfriend back in college. Blonde, always wore those yoga pants and had that weird obsession with essential oils?”

You blinked once, then looked toward Hesh, curiosity piqued. He didn’t meet your gaze. He just stared off into the dark like maybe if he focused hard enough, he could teleport somewhere else.

“She hated when we smoked,” Logan continued, chuckling to himself. “Like, full-on meltdown if she so much as smelled it on our clothes. Remember that time she tried to throw out your stash?”

“Logan,” Hesh warned again, this time with a little more edge in his voice. “Seriously.”

“Relax, I’m not dragging her,” Logan said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk betrayed him. “I’m dragging you. You put up with so much crap, man. All that nagging, and the lectures, and the guilt-tripping about your diet. You couldn't even eat carne asada fries in peace without her giving you the look.”

You let out a quiet laugh, trying to mask the tightness that had crept into your chest. Jealousy was an ugly thing, and you knew it wasn’t fair — this was old history, long buried — but you couldn’t help it. The thought of Hesh with someone else, someone who knew him in those years you’d missed, stirred something sharp inside you. And at the same time, that familiar relief slipped in beside it — because it was over. He wasn’t tethered to anyone. Neither were you.

Still, you couldn’t resist. “She your college sweetheart or something?” you asked, voice a little too casual, like you weren’t secretly hoping the answer would disappoint you.

Hesh let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “No,” he said simply. “Just a girl I dated for a while. It wasn’t anything serious. Not really.”

Logan snorted. “Serious enough that she tried to make you give up beer.”

“She was opinionated,” Hesh allowed, then turned his gaze toward you. His expression was gentler now, the edge from earlier gone. “We were just in different places. I think we both knew it. It ran its course.”

You nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch between you for a beat before asking, “Where’d you go to school?”

“USD,” he replied. “University of San Diego.”

That caught you off guard. Your brows lifted, and you tilted your head toward him. “Really? You stayed that close?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small shrug. “Thought about going farther. Even got into a couple schools up north. But it didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to be too far from home. You know. Just in case.”

The words sat heavy in your chest. He’d stayed. Rooted himself close, within reach of everything you had left behind without looking back. You didn’t even know how to respond at first, your throat tight with guilt that had been quietly building since the day you returned. You shifted on the bars, the metal cool beneath your palms, grounding.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” you said after a moment, your voice low. “I didn’t plan to vanish after graduation. It just happened. Life got loud. I got busy. One year turned into more. It wasn’t personal.”

Hesh looked at you for a long moment, and you could see the flicker of something behind his eyes — recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice quieter now, slower. “I get it. Things change. People move on.”

“But I didn’t mean to move away from you,” you said, and there it was — bare and honest, even if it made you wince. “I just — I got caught up in everything. And before I knew it, it felt too late to come back.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Well, you’re here now.”

That was all he said. But it was enough to make you look down, to swallow hard past the ache forming at the back of your throat.

Eventually, Logan hopped off the bars with a grunt, stretching his arms over his head. “Alright,” he said, voice breaking the quiet. “All that beer earlier caught up to me. I’m gonna head back before I end up pissing in someone’s hydrangeas.”

You laughed, the sound a little too loud, too grateful for the interruption. “Charming, Logan. Really.”

He just winked and sauntered off ahead, shoes scraping against the pavement as he went. You and Hesh lingered behind, walking side by side beneath the trees. The night had thickened around you, cooler now, the sky darker than before. Streetlamps hummed overhead, casting patches of pale yellow on the sidewalk as you meandered back toward the house. Conversation turned softer, quieter — bits of nothing, memories and fragments of high school stories, the way your town had changed and stayed the same all at once.

By the time you reached your front yard, Logan had already disappeared inside. The screen door clattered behind him, leaving you and Hesh alone on the porch beneath the soft glow of the porch light. It buzzed faintly above your heads, casting a warm halo over the weathered wood planks, the railing chipped and familiar beneath your fingers.

You turned to say goodnight, but Hesh was already looking at you.

There was something different in his expression now — something quieter, unguarded. His eyes flicked down, then back up again, and he stepped a little closer, just enough to close the distance but not enough to make it uncomfortable.

“You looked really pretty tonight,” he said softly, voice rough with something you couldn’t name. “Just thought I should say that.”

Your breath caught. You tried to thank him, to make a joke maybe, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you felt the warmth bloom under your skin, your heart thudding in your chest like it was trying to reach for something it didn’t know how to hold.

He lifted a hand, almost without thinking, and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. His knuckles skimmed your skin — just barely — and then he stopped. Paused. His hand hovered there, so close it made you shiver, but he didn’t touch you again. He let it fall back to his side, his mouth twitching like he was about to say something, but thought better of it.

And then the moment passed.

“See you inside,” he said, voice quieter now.

He turned and disappeared through the threshold, the screen door creaking behind him. You stood frozen on the porch, the wood creaking faintly beneath your weight, arms wrapped around yourself as though you could trap the warmth of him in your chest before it faded.

⟡

A few nights after that moment on the porch — after Hesh had looked at you too long, and you’d stayed outside too late, pretending the air hadn’t shifted — he texted. Just one message: Burgers? I’ll drive. No context, no emoji. Typical. But it was after ten, the house was quiet, and the thought of staying in your room again, lying on that old bed surrounded by memories you hadn’t asked to keep, felt unbearable. So, you went.

You pulled on the hoodie you used to steal from your dad’s closet back in high school — oversized, frayed at the cuffs — and padded barefoot down the hallway. Outside, the night was warm and still, the sky an indigo blur overhead. Hesh’s familiar truck idled at the curb, headlights low, engine humming soft against the quiet. When you climbed into the passenger seat, the door creaked like it always had. He glanced over at you, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the console.

“You hungry?” he asked, eyes flicking toward you with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got us the usual.”

You leaned back in your seat, pulled your sleeves over your hands. “Good. I’m starving.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He pulled out of the neighborhood with a turn so familiar it made your stomach ache. The windows were cracked, letting in the scent of warm asphalt and eucalyptus. Streetlights passed in a slow rhythm, painting the dashboard gold, then shadow, then gold again. The town blurred past your window in softened outlines — the gas station where you bought slushies, the closed-up diner with the flickering sign, the corner store that still hadn’t changed its awning. He didn’t say where you were going, but you knew. You felt it in the turn of the wheel. In the way he sped up just before the road curved inland toward the cliffs.

“Lover’s Lane?” you asked, feigning innocence, though your voice gave you away.

He glanced at you, already grinning. “It’s a classic. Why mess with tradition?”

You raised a brow. “You realize Logan’s gonna think this is a booty call.”

“Logan’s probably passed out with a bag of chips on his chest and Die Hard 2 playing in the background.”

You laughed, and it was loud in the stillness of the cab. His smile widened like he’d been waiting for that sound. But underneath it, that familiar tension curled in your stomach — one you hadn’t felt in years, one that made you feel sixteen again, reckless and tongue-tied. You and Hesh had spent hours here before, up on this ridge with greasy burgers and soda cans, throwing fries at each other and trading music recommendations. It had always been casual. Never romantic. Never anything like this.

But this time was different. Not just because the hour was later, or because you were older and slower to laugh. It was in the way he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, how the air between you had gone thick with something unnamed. It was in the way your heart tripped a little when he pulled into the familiar overlook, headlights sweeping briefly over the edge before he turned them off and parked in the hush of the dark.

Below, the ocean roared somewhere out of sight, black and infinite. Above, the stars burned low and quiet. The whole world felt tucked away, like a secret.

He handed you a burger, already unwrapping his, the scent filling the truck cab like memory. “Tell me this place doesn’t still slap,” he said through a mouthful, leaning back against the door like he was settling in for something more than just a late-night meal.

You popped a fry into your mouth, smirking. “You sound like Logan.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

He laughed, biting again into his burger. “Alright. That’s fair.”

The two of you ate in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by the rustle of paper, the hiss of crickets outside, and the occasional satisfied sigh. He handed you his pickles, like always — still hated them, and still remembered that you didn’t.

It felt easy. Almost. Like slipping on an old jacket and finding something in the pocket you didn’t know you’d missed.

“So,” you said as you tossed your wrapper into the bag with a crinkle. “Casey.”

He groaned immediately. “Fuck’s sake.”

You grinned. “What? Poor baby. She had you eating kale chips and drinking oat milk? Terrible.”

“She did not,” he said, though it sounded more like a protest than a defense. “Okay, once. But only because she insisted.”

“Logan also said she made you give up carne asada fries?”

He threw his head back against the headrest with a groan. “That was a dark chapter of my life.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“She had opinions, alright? Strong ones.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Did you love her?”

The question lingered in the air like smoke. He didn’t answer right away. Just finished the last bite of his burger, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stared out the windshield into the dark.

“No,” he said finally. “I cared about her. I tried. But it always felt like — I don’t know. Like she was a placeholder.”

You turned toward him more fully, heart skittering. “For who?”

He looked over at you then, really looked — eyes searching your face, jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. He didn’t smile this time.

“Who do you think?”

The air felt like it stopped moving. You didn’t blink.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said, voice low. “Not with me. You either say it out loud, or you don’t say anything at all. I’m not guessing.”

Hesh didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, slow. Like he’d known you were going to call him out.

“I had the fattest crush on you back in high school,” he said, finally. “And I mean — bad. When we’d smoke under the bleachers, when you’d talk shit and drop three-pointers at lunch, when you’d hang with me and Logan like it was nothing. I kept telling myself you were just one of the guys, but then — that night?”

He didn’t have to explain which night. You remembered it. The one where the three of you ditched prom, ended up on the beach with a cooler full of stolen drinks and a shitty Bluetooth speaker, barefoot and drunk and chasing the sunrise like it owed you something.

“You were laughing,” he said, softer now. “Hair everywhere, sand all over your legs. You looked at me and smiled like you weren’t even thinking about it, and I swear to God, it wrecked me. You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“And you still are,” he added. “That hasn’t changed.”

Neither of you said anything for a long time. The truck was silent. The world was too. You heard the ocean, steady and far away, like it was waiting.

Something cracked open in your chest. Not a flood, not a collapse — just a quiet shift. Like something inside you had turned toward him, after all these years, and finally stopped looking away. You looked at him for a long moment, your heart thudding, chest tight with all the things that could have been — back then, and maybe even now. The words slipped out before you could soften them. “You should’ve told me, Hesh.”

He glanced at you, brow creased, expression unreadable in the dark.

“Back then,” you went on, voice quiet but firm. “If I’d known — maybe I’d have come home more often. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time trying to forget this place. If I’d known there was someone waiting.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just let the silence stretch, his jaw shifting as he looked out toward the edge of the overlook. The moonlight cut a line across his cheekbone, faint and silver.

“There was always someone waiting,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “You just didn’t see it.”

That made your stomach twist, not because it hurt, but because it was too honest. Too real. You wanted to crawl back in time and knock on your younger self’s skull — tell her to stop being so scared, so sure that everyone else would forget her the moment she left.

You sighed, trying to push the air back into your lungs, then leaned over and nudged his shoulder with yours. “Well,” you said lightly, trying to pull the conversation back from the edge, “maybe if I’d known, I could’ve saved you from Casey. Think of all the quinoa you could’ve avoided.”

That earned a half-laugh from him, but he rolled his eyes. “Hey, don’t knock quinoa. It made me regular for the first time in months.”

You groaned. “That’s gross.”

He smirked. “I’m just saying. And say what you want about Casey, but she did have a few talents.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Please don’t—”

“I mean,” he went on, grin widening, “she was a pain in the ass, but girl could ride.”

“Oh my God,” you said, doubling over with laughter. “Stop. Stop talking. I take it back — I would’ve let you rot with her.”

He laughed too, full and unguarded, knocking his head lightly against the headrest. “You asked!”

“No, I absolutely did not ask for that visual. Jesus Christ, Hesh.”

The two of you couldn’t stop laughing for a moment, too many years of buildup, too much unspoken tension finally venting in the only way it could. But the thing was — you felt it. The moment he said it, the second the conversation turned that sharp corner toward something more physical, everything inside the truck shifted. You felt it in the way the air thickened between you, how his voice dropped just a little lower. How the space between you, once filled with wrappers and banter, now felt too small.

You looked over at him — and you saw him. Not just the Hesh who’d known you since you were in diapers. Not just the guy who used to flick bottle caps at your forehead and throw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. No. You saw the man he’d become. The heat in his eyes. The line of his jaw, the cut of his biceps under that worn flannel sleeve. He wasn’t just your friend anymore, and maybe he hadn’t been for a while.

He was a man sitting beside you in the dark, a man who liked you — who wanted you, if the tension in the air was anything to go by. And fuck, how could you blame him? Your skin was humming, your whole body keyed up with something you weren’t sure you could name, only that it made you want to slide into his lap and see how long he could keep talking if you kissed him just once.

You didn’t even notice you’d zoned out until you heard him snap his fingers near your face.

“Yo,” Hesh said, peering at you. “Where’d you go just now?”

Your eyes snapped back to his, wide and startled — and you knew he saw it. Knew, by the slow way his smile curved, that he felt it too.

You unbuckled your seatbelt with a sharp snap, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He just watched you — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils wide in the low light — and you could feel it, the air stretching thin between your bodies. You didn’t hesitate. You slid one knee onto the console, the leather warm against your shin, and climbed into his lap. You didn’t ask. You didn’t explain. You just moved, slow and sure, as if your body had already decided where it needed to go before your mind caught up.

His seat groaned beneath the sudden shift, and Hesh grunted softly as he leaned back, palms instinctively catching your waist. His hands settled there, firm and warm, thumbs brushing the skin just beneath your shirt, and he didn’t push you off — just let you straddle him, your right thigh brushing the door and his ribs. Your legs were bare, your shorts hiked high, and the feel of denim under you — thick and strained — sent a pulse straight through your gut.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, but his voice was different now — lower, huskier, like the words had to drag themselves out past his teeth.

You smiled, slow and quiet. You could feel him beneath you, hard already, pressing up against the heat between your legs like a question you hadn’t answered yet. You rolled your hips just enough to make him groan, a quiet, broken sound that made your stomach clench.

You leaned in, lips brushing his throat, the faint stubble catching against your mouth as you kissed down the slope of his neck. He tasted like sweat and salt and something that had always belonged to summer. He inhaled sharply when your tongue flicked against the curve just below his jaw, and you felt the way his hands twitched at your hips — like he meant to pull you off but couldn’t quite remember why.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “We should slow the fuck down—”

But your mouth was already trailing lower, teeth grazing his pulse, and your hand slid up into his hair, tightening just enough to tilt his head back for you. His throat arched beautifully, and you kissed a hot, open line down to his collarbone, sucking there until you tasted skin, until he was shifting under you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Friends, right?” you whispered, lips pressed to the hollow of his throat. “Friends who used to want each other.”

Hesh breathed your name like a warning — low, guttural, but with no fight in it.

You rocked against him once, slow and purposeful, and he groaned again. This one wasn’t polite. It came from deep in his chest, ragged and raw. You felt it everywhere. The weight of him, the pressure, the heat curling up your spine like smoke. Your voice was still quiet, still playful, but your eyes locked on his.

“How many times have you jerked off thinking about me, Hesh?” you asked, not blinking.

His whole body jerked beneath yours, head tipping back against the seat, jaw clenched like he was trying to rein himself in. But the tremble in his breath gave him away.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, voice rough, barely hanging on.

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t need to. The heat between you had already turned molten, coiling up from where your bodies met and burning through every inch of space that had ever dared to exist between you.

You shifted in his lap, the seat reclining just far enough to hold the weight of you. His hands were everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, fingertips leaving trails of pressure that made you dizzy. His chest rose against yours, unsteady, and his breath was loud in the small cab of the truck, fogging the windows with each exhale.

You rocked against him, slow at first. Testing. Letting the friction build between you like the hum of a song you used to know. Hesh groaned — head tipped back, eyes closed, teeth sinking into his lower lip like he was trying not to lose himself too quickly. You could feel him straining against his jeans beneath you, and it only made your movements slower, more purposeful, until he cursed under his breath and gripped your hips tighter, guiding you where he needed you most.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.

You kissed him — really kissed him this time. No teasing, no hesitation. Just your mouth on his, hot and open, tongues tangling, breath shared. You felt it in your teeth, in the tips of your fingers, in the place between your thighs where your body ached to close the distance.

Your hand slid down, working at his belt, both of you fumbling, half-laughing through the desperation. You felt the zipper lower beneath your fingers, felt the heat of him through the fabric, and when he finally helped you push everything down far enough, it was like a dam breaking.

You sank onto him slow — too slow — and he gripped the edge of the seat like he was holding himself together. You exhaled into his neck, shuddering, your nails digging into his shoulders as your hips rolled once, then again, and his hands found your ass, holding you there like he couldn’t stand to let you move too far away.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t soft either. It was messy and real and aching with the weight of years that could have been, should have been. Hesh’s mouth was on your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach, and yours was in his hair, at his jaw, whispering his name every time your hips ground down harder, deeper.

“Look at me,” he said, voice cracked and low, one hand sliding up to your jaw. “Please. I want to see you.” His thumb traced along your skin as he said it, holding you there. Not roughly. Not sweetly either. Just with purpose, with heat.

So, you did. You opened your eyes, met his, and it nearly knocked the breath out of you — how hungry he looked, how hard he was fighting to keep it together. His hands gripped your hips tight, pulling you flush down against him again, and this time he didn’t hide the sound that came out of him. You felt it everywhere — in your thighs, your stomach, in the tight stretch between your legs where he filled you completely, deeper now with the way you were riding him, slow and unrelenting.

You rolled your hips again, pressing your knees tighter around his sides, grinding down on him so he couldn’t move without you. His head fell back against the seat, mouth parted, breathing hard. You leaned into the curve of his throat again, kissed it open-mouthed, biting lightly just under his jaw, and his hands jerked at your waist like he was losing control of himself inch by inch.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You feel so fucking good. I forgot — I didn’t think — fuck—”

You cut him off by lifting your hips and sinking back down hard, slow, making him feel every inch of you dragging along him. His hips bucked up instinctively, driving into you from below, and the angle made you gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders through his shirt.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, voice raw against his ear. “Oh fuck, Hesh, don’t—”

His hand slipped under your hoodie, grabbing at your ass as he fucked up into you again, rougher now. Each thrust jolted through your body — tight, sharp, wet heat building with every movement, every slap of your bodies meeting. You couldn’t stay quiet anymore. Your moans fell out of you fast and breathless, not delicate, not shy. You were past pretending.

“You thought about this, didn’t you?” he whispered, grabbing a fistful of your hair to keep your head back, so you had to look at him, had to see what you were doing to him. “You thought about me fucking you like this?”

“Yeah,” you gasped, barely getting the word out as you rocked down harder again. “So many fucking times.”

You were soaked now — could feel the slick drag every time he pushed deeper, could hear the wet sounds of it filling the truck, your thighs shaking around him. He shifted one hand between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your whole body jolt forward against his chest.

“Hesh—fuck—” You clenched down on him as he hit just right, and his groan turned into something nearly desperate.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted, his hand working between you as he kept thrusting up into your body, relentless now. “I wanna feel it. Right here.”

You kissed him — messy and wet and uncoordinated — tongues clashing, teeth catching, breath swallowed down into each other like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body jerking forward as your orgasm slammed into you — hot and sharp and too much all at once.

You cried out against his mouth, legs trembling, your cunt fluttering around him as he groaned into your neck, thrusting once, twice more before he let go too. His whole body jerked beneath you, thick and hot as he spilled inside you, his grip bruising on your hips as he held you down to take all of it.

There was only the sound of the ocean below and the windows fogged with everything you’d just done, the space around you thick with the weight of it — of years, of tension, of something broken open and finally seen. You were straddling him, his hands still gripping your thighs like he didn’t quite believe you were real. Sweat clung to your skin, cooling where your bodies had been pressed too close, and for a long moment, neither of you said anything. It was just the sound of your heart slowing down, his thumb brushing absentmindedly across your hip, the truck rocking faintly in the breeze that slipped in through the cracked window.

And then Hesh, in true Hesh fashion, opened his mouth.

“Well,” he drawled, voice gravelly and half-breathless, “you might be almost as good as Casey.”

You leaned back so fast it made the leather creak, your brows shooting up in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

He gave you that shit-eating grin, smug and entirely unapologetic, even as his chest rose and fell beneath you. “I mean, I’m just saying — if we’re ranking things—”

“You are so lucky I’m half-naked right now, because that?” You slapped his chest with a soft thud. “That warrants me killing you later.”

“Oh, come on,” he laughed, catching your wrist loosely, clearly pleased with himself. “You know I’m joking.”

You narrowed your eyes, but there was no heat behind it. “Uh-huh. Say one more word about your ex and see what happens.”

“I’m just saying,” he teased, voice lower now, the humor still lingering at the edge of something else, “she never did it in the car. So maybe you’re tied.”

You groaned and climbed off of him, your legs unsteady, still trembling just enough to make it awkward as you fumbled for the burger bag. “You are disgusting. This is why no one takes you seriously.”

Hesh laughed again as he zipped his jeans up, eyes following you as you pulled a few crumpled napkins free and tried to clean yourself up with as much dignity as one could muster post-car-sex. “You didn’t seem too bothered a minute ago.”

You tossed a napkin at his head. “Shut up.”

He caught it midair, grinning lazily. “You want me to take you home?”

You paused for a second, thumb still brushing idly against your inner thigh, thinking about your empty bedroom and the quiet house waiting for you. Then you looked at him — shirt halfway undone, hair sticking up in places from your fingers, lips still pink and a little swollen from where you’d kissed him too hard.

“No,” you said, soft but sure. “Take me to your place.”

That stopped his grin cold, just for a beat. His gaze sharpened, his jaw working like he was trying not to look too eager about it. “Yeah,” he said finally, nodding as he reached for the keys. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”

⟡

The morning was already warm when you woke, sunlight sliding across the hardwood floors in slats, dust motes hanging lazily in the air like they had nowhere else to be. You rolled out of Hesh’s bed slowly, legs sore in the best way, your body still humming from every way he’d touched you through the night. The sheets were tangled behind you, the room a comfortable mess, like the two of you had fallen asleep mid-thought, mid-laugh, mid-something.

You didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed one of his old shirts off the floor — navy, faded, soft from years of washing — and pulled it over your head, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you padded downstairs barefoot. The sound of voices drifted up from the kitchen, low and familiar: Elias’s rumble and Logan’s sharper, brighter tone cutting in and out. The smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet greeted you like a second welcome.

You stepped into the kitchen and paused in the doorway.

Elias was standing at the stove, ladling out oatmeal into a bowl, his back half-turned. Logan was already at the table, chewing lazily on a piece of bacon, feet kicked up on the empty chair beside him. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps.

And then he smirked.

“Well, well, well,” Logan said around the last bit of bacon, voice just loud enough to carry.

Elias turned then — just enough to see you standing there, silent in Hesh’s shirt, bare-legged, hair mussed, clearly not just someone stopping by for breakfast. His hand froze midair, spoon still halfway to the bowl.

The silence was immediate. Heavy. It stretched out just long enough to make your cheeks flush, but you held your ground, moving quietly to sit down at the table without a word.

Logan snorted and reached over to clap a hand on his father’s shoulder.

Rounds shattered the pillar above Merrick’s head. Keegan ducked left and returned fire with precise, short bursts, but you were already on the move — flanking, sweeping across the debris-strewn upper level like a machine. No wasted movement. Not an ounce of fear.

Logan hit the ground beside Hesh as a bullet tore through the wall behind them “That’s her,” he said. “Fuck, that’s her. She’s trying to kill us.”

“She’s not her anymore,” Merrick growled.

You vaulted over the ledge and dropped down behind cover, reloading mid-motion, then fired again, a perfect suppressive arc that pinned all four Ghosts. You were faster, smarter, better, than you had been before.

Rorke had made you into a weapon.

But Merrick had seen enough war to know one thing: the faster they move, the harder they fall.

“Keegan!” he barked. “Flash and stun. Move now.”

The sniper lobbed the first flashbang high, it ricocheted off the ceiling, right over your cover in a burst of white, screaming smoke.

You stumbled.

The second came fast. A shock-pulse grenade. Not enough to kill, but certainly enough to disorient you.

You hit the ground hard. Your gun clattered away into the rubble. Your limbs twitched and your muscles spasmed, refusing to obey as your brain screamed at them to move.

The Ghosts were on you in seconds. Keegan kicked your rifle out of reach. Logan pulled your arms behind your back and slipped zipcuffs around your wrists, tightening them down painfully, while Merrick held you steady, face grim. Hesh stood over you, watching, his expression unreadable.

You couldn’t fight them, but you cursed loudly. “Get your filthy hands off me—fuckers—traitors—you’ll all burn!”

No recognition. Not even a flinch. Just violent fury.

Merrick looked down at you with so much pity in his eyes, like someone staring at a dying animal.

“She doesn’t remember us,” Logan said quietly. “At all.”

“That’s not her fault,” Hesh replied, quickly, his voice tight.

“You sure about that?” Keegan muttered.

Merrick knelt beside you. “You don’t know who we are, but we know exactly who you are. You’re one of us, and we look after our own.” He knocked a knuckle gently on your forehead. “We’re going to fix this.”

You laughed, something harsh and hollow. “I know exactly who you are. I’m not one of you.”

Hesh’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing as he looked down at you, his eyes swimming with something akin to sorrow and underneath it, a quiet rage.

-

They brought you into base medical sedated and restrained. Elias Walker met his team at the doors, eyes dark with something between fury and grief.

Merrick only said three words. “She doesn’t remember.”

Elias stared at the unconscious form on the stretcher. Your body, scarred and armored, in the colors of the enemy.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then: “Prep the secure room. No one gets in except me, Hesh, and Dr. Emmerich.”

“You think you can undo it?” Keegan asked, his voice betraying no emotion.

Elias’s eyes never left you. “I don’t know,” he said. “But we’re going to try.”

-

The storm hadn’t let up. Rain hammered the roof of medical facility like a warning drumbeat, constant and cold.

Elias stood alone in the observation room above the med bay. Below, through reinforced glass, your body lay still on the table, wrists restrained, IVs running through your arm, vitals steady. Alive, but something was wrong.

You were breathing, stable, but it wasn’t you down there. Not the young woman who used to call him “sir” with a knowing smile. Not the medic who’d dragged Logan out of a collapsed hotel in Caracas while her own leg bled. Not the girl who made his oldest son laugh like he hadn’t since childhood.

This... this was a stranger with your face. He heard the door open behind him. Heavy footfalls in a familiar gate. Merrick.

Elias didn’t look over. Just kept his eyes on the medic bed below.

“You always said she was tough,” Merrick said gently. “Surviving eight months in the Federation? Most people wouldn’t last eight days.”

“I didn’t think I’d see her again,” Elias murmured. “And now that I have… well, I’m not sure I have.”

Merrick didn’t answer. The truth didn’t need repeating.

“She was more than just a medic,” Elias said. “She knew how to read people, find what they needed. Kept them steady. Hell, she kept me steady sometimes.”

He turned, finally, face creased with years of war, and now, something heavier than battle fatigue.

“But with Hesh… Christ, Tom. She lit him up. Made him better. I’d watch them talking in the mess after ops, laughing like there was no war outside the walls, and I’d think... maybe he’ll survive this life after all.” He exhaled, slow. “I don’t know what Rorke did to her. I don’t know how deep it runs. What if she never comes back? What if we’re wasting time on a ghost that’s never going to remember she was one of us?”

Merrick stepped beside him, silent for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest below.

“Hesh hasn’t slept. Hasn’t eaten much either. He’s running drills like he’s fine, but I’ve seen the cracks.”

“I know,” Elias said quietly. “I see it. He won’t say it out loud, but... he’s scared. If we don’t fix this, it’ll be like losing her all over again.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, jaw clenched tight. “I would do anything to take that pain from him. To fix this.”

Not many people saw this side of Elias: tired, emotional, raw.

“I know you would,” Merrick murmured. “But you can’t. We can only try to help her remember. Give her a reason to want to come back. And if she doesn’t…” He trailed off.

Elias’s answer was a whisper, not for anyone but himself. “Then we don’t let Hesh fall with her.”

-

The med bay was quiet, save for the low hum of machines monitoring your vitals. A soft beep every few seconds. A slow inhale. A slower exhale.

You were awake now. Alert. Strapped to the bed at the wrists and ankles. Still mildly sedated, but your eyes were sharp, watchful, cold. Like a cornered animal that hadn't quite decided if it would bite or wait for a better opening.

Thunder rumbled above you and you flinched.

Hesh stood just inside the doorway. He hadn’t said anything yet. Just watched you from the edge of the room like approaching a time-bomb. His hands were clenched at his sides.

“You don’t have to play games,” you said, finally. Your voice was dry and flat. “You won’t get information from me.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Hesh replied softly. He stepped forward, slowly, like walking a tightrope. “I’m not your enemy.”

You watched him with that same dead-eyed stare, expression betraying only anger and vitriol.

“You’re David Walker. Ghost operative. American loyalist. Son of Elias Walker. You were flagged by the Federation as a Tier One priority target. I know everything I need to know about you.”

The words sounded as if they had been blindly memorized, likely from a dossier.

He swallowed hard. That cut deep, more than he’d admit. “I’m not here as a Ghost,” he said. “I’m here as... the man who loves you. Or used to. I’m not even sure if you’re in there anymore.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. Still no recognition. “Love,” you repeated, as if it was a foreign word, or maybe a bad joke. “You think I’d believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Hesh admitted. “Except that the woman I knew — the woman I loved — she would never fire on her team.”

Your voice sharpened, your malic almost palpable. “The Federation showed me what you really are. What the Ghosts are. Who your father is—”

He shook his head, stepping deeper into the room. “You used to come to me after rough missions,” he said. “You’d curl up under my arm and tell me that the world felt quieter when I was there.”

Your expression stayed neutral, but your fingers twitched. An involuntary movement. A spark of something?

“You like black coffee,” Hesh continued. “You hate the cold. You always carried extra morphine even when protocol said not to, because you didn’t like watching people suffer.”

Silence. You looked at him. Even as your instincts screamed at you that he was the enemy, you were in danger, something pulsed dully in the back of your mind.

“Stop it,” you muttered, your eyes darkening.

“You’re too embarrassed to admit it, but you’re scared of storms. You once told me that if you weren’t a medic, you’d raise dogs somewhere quiet. You like yellow roses better than red.”

You jerked at the restraints violently. “I said stop it.”

“And the night before you disappeared,” Hesh whispered, “you kissed me and said, ‘Don’t let this war change who we are.’”

A long silence.

You blinked, slowly. A tiny crease appeared in your brow, like your mind hit a wall it didn’t recognize. “It’s not true,” you hissed sharply. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“That’s okay,” Hesh said. He stepped even closer, now at the edge of the bed. “Then let me remember it for both of us. Until you’re ready.”

You didn’t answer. You just… looked at him, even as your gaze carried skepticism. But you didn’t spit, or scream, or curse.

And for Hesh, in that moment, that was enough to feel hope come flooding back.

He didn’t turn around when the door hissed opened. but he didn’t need to. He knew the sound of those footsteps, the voice that followed, low and firm.

“That’s enough, Hesh,” Merrick rumbled.

Hesh stood frozen at your bedside, jaw tight, eyes still locked on you. “Just a little longer,” he said, not asking.

Merrick stepped in, calm and measured. “That’s not your call.”

“She’s starting to remember,” he argued, voice rising. “You saw it!”

Merrick looked at you.

You stared back, shoulders rigid against the restraints, lips slightly parted. There was no warmth in your face… but there was something else now. A flicker behind your eyes. Not quite recognition, but something. An opening.

But Merrick didn’t want to push you, not yet.

He put a hand on Hesh’s shoulder to steer him towards the door.

“She’s overwhelmed,” He muttered as they made their way out of the room. “Pushing her harder right now might not pull her back. It might break her.”

“She’s not broken,” Hesh insisted. “She’s in there.”

“Then let’s make sure she stays in one piece long enough to come back.” Merrick’s grip on Hesh’s shoulder softened. “Come on. Let me do my part. You already did yours.”

Reluctantly, Hesh backed off. He took a final look at you from the doorway, eyes soft, lips twitching into a small frown, then he turned and walked away.

The door slid shut behind him, leaving you alone with Merrick.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He just watched you. No angle or act. Just a man who’d seen more war than he cared to remember, trying to read the eyes of someone he used to care about.

“You want the truth?” he said finally. “I don’t care what Rorke told you. I don’t care what they made you see. What I do care about is whether there’s anything left of you behind those eyes that still wants to be a Ghost.”

You stared at him, still stone-faced. “You think this is some kind of redemption arc?” you said coolly. “Question me gently, say the right words, hope I cry and remember some sweet memory about campfires and war stories?”

He didn’t flinch. “No,” Merrick said. “I know this ain’t a movie. I’ve seen the Federation’s work up close. I’ve seen good men shoot their own squad mates because someone rewired their heads.”

He took a step closer.

“So I’m not asking you to remember. I’m asking you something simpler.”

You didn’t respond, but something in your posture shifted, your head tilting slightly. You were listening.

“When Hesh looked at you, spoke to you... did you feel anything? Even if it was just a headache?”

You hesitated, a second too long. “No,” you said, your voice wavering.

Merrick caught it. He nodded once.

“That’s all I needed to know.” He turned to leave. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder. “Not to test you. Not to fix you. Just to see which part of you shows up.”

And then he was gone, and you were alone again. Alone with a steady pulse ringing in your ears and Hesh’s voice in your head. ‘You like yellow roses better than red.’

You squeezed your eyes shut and laid your head back, trying to fight off the growing migraine.

-

The Federation command center was buried beneath ten stories of black concrete and reinforced steel, humming with screens, codes, and cold fluorescent lights. On the top floor, in a soundproofed war room painted in shadow, Gabriel Rorke stood with his back to the table.

He was silent as the report came in. “Sir, we have confirmation. Subject Seven was captured alive by Task Force Stalker two nights ago. Extraction failed. She’s being held at the Santa Monica facility.”

The officer paused, waiting for the explosion that never came.

Rorke said nothing. The silence pressed against the walls like a second atmosphere. The air went colder.

“Her current state is unknown, but telemetry stopped the moment she went dark. We believe they’ve neutralized her uplink. Command suggests containment protocol—”

“Out.”

The officer froze. “Sir?”

“I said out.”

He left without another word.

Rorke stared at the black-glass window overlooking the control floor. His reflection stared back: eyes sunken, storm-gray, hands clenched behind his back.

She was gone.

No, not gone. Taken.

His weapon. His project. His success story. She was proof that loyalty was a lie. That everyone breaks eventually. Even medics with warm eyes and gentle hands. Especially them.

He’d broken her. Rebuilt her. Made her see the truth.

The way she moved in the field… precise, unflinching. The way she said the Ghosts’ names with disdain, like she’d always hated them. That wasn't a trick. That was purity.

And now the Ghosts had her. Touching that mind. Scratching at it. Trying to pull her back into the delusion of family.

Rorke’s lip curled. “They think they can unmake what I built.”

He walked to his private console and opened her file. Footage played: training sessions, mission debriefs, neural sync trials.

In one, she laughed after finishing a Federation live-fire drill. She wiped the sweat from her brow, smudged with ash and blood, and looked straight into the camera. This time, she hadn’t hesitated. She was proud.

And Rorke had been proud of her, too.

In some cold, fractured corner of him… he had begun to see her as something like a daughter. But daughters were liabilities. Attachments. Weaknesses.

“You get too close to the fire, Gabriel,” the voice of his old CO once warned. “Eventually, it burns you too.”

Rorke closed the file. Eyes hard. Shoulders squared.

“Let them try. Let them waste their time with soft words and sentiment.”

He turned to the console and opened a secure comm.

“Initiate Suppression Protocol 66. Asset is compromised. If she doesn't kill them, we will.”

A pause.

“And if they flip her back?”

Rorke stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. His reply was cold. “Then we kill her, too.”

He shut the console off.

And in the dark silence that followed, for the first time in months... he felt something like regret.

But only for a moment. Then it was gone.

-

The med bay lights were dimmed. The midnight quiet permeated through the building, save for the rhythmic beeps and hums of machines hooked up to you.

You lay still in the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Blank. White. Cold.

Like your head, like your thoughts. Except…

Not entirely. Because there was a buzzing in the back of your brain. Not the sharp directives of the Federation. Not the clarity of purpose you’d been trained to follow.

This was softer.

It came in fragments. Words without source. Feelings without logic. A warmth in your chest when you remembered a certain voice. An ache you couldn’t explain when you heard Hesh say your name.

It didn’t make sense. You hated the Ghosts. You wanted to kill them… Didn’t you?

The door opened. Footsteps followed, soft and unhurried.

You turned your head slightly. It wasn’t Merrick. Not Hesh. It was the other one. The younger one. Logan Walker.

His eyes were quiet. Expression unreadable. He didn’t carry the weight his brother did in his shoulders, but something colder lingered behind his silence. Like he’d seen things he didn’t speak of. Chosen not to.

He didn’t say anything as he stepped in. Just moved to the chair beside your bed and sat down.

You watched him warily. “Come to ask me what I remember?” You grunted.

He shook his head once. “No.”

A moment passed.

“Come to stare at the traitor?”

“No,” he repeated.

You frowned. “Then why are you here?”

He looked at you.

Then very calmly he said, “You saved my life once. In Caracas. Shrapnel in my thigh. You helped carry me out when I couldn’t walk.”

You blinked. Something buzzed faintly in your ears. “No,” you said plainly. “That’s not—”

“You bled the whole way. Got hit yourself. Refused to let Keegan help you until I was stable.”

You shook your head. “Sorry, kid. I don’t remember that.”

Logan just nodded, accepting it. No anger. No pleading. “I didn’t think you would.”

Silence fell again. The machines kept beeping.

Finally, you muttered, “Then why tell me?”

He looked away, toward the corner of the room. “Because whether you remember or not… I do.”

You stared at him.

His voice was so calm and sure, as if he didn’t need you to believe. He only needed you to hear it.

“You weren’t like this,” he uttered, still not meeting your eyes. “You used to hum when you checked our vitals. Used to say names gently, like they were people, not problems. Now…” He finally turned back to you.

“Now you look at me like I’m a target.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t deny it, either.

Logan stood, quiet as he came, but he paused at the door.

“Whatever they put in your head… fight it.” His voice was quiet, firm. “Not for us. For you.”

Then he left.

This time, the silence didn’t feel as empty. You looked back up at the ceiling.

And for the first time since waking up here, a tear slipped down to your temple. You didn’t even realize it was there until it cooled on your skin.

And you didn’t know why you were crying.

-

It came slowly at first, like sunlight leaking into the cracks between curtains.

Warmth.

Soft cotton sheets.

The low hum of a fan running somewhere nearby.

A weight across your waist. Skin against skin.

His arm was draped over you, fingers splayed gently against your bare stomach, breath warm on the back of your neck.

Hesh.

He murmured something, sleepy and slurred, then shifted closer, pulling you in tighter like he never wanted to let go.

You laughed softly under your breath, not because anything was funny, but because you were happy. You felt safe. Because you knew exactly how he liked his eggs. Because you’d memorized the scars on his ribs and the cadence of his breathing.

Because he was yours and you were his.

“You’re clingy in the mornings,” you mumbled, your eyes still closed.

“M’clingy always,” he whispered against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered open and you rolled to face him. He smiled that lopsided grin… sleep-heavy, unguarded.

You felt it deep in your chest, that strange peace and comfortability that only came with years of vulnerability and trust.

The way his hand rested just above your heart. The way his presence anchored you to the world.

Safe. Wanted. Known.

His eyes searched yours like they didn’t need to ask anything. Like they already knew everything.

“You’re staring,” you teased.

“I’m memorizing,” he corrected you, softly. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case the world ends,” he replied, his voice just above a whisper.

He kissed your forehead.

You laughed again, as if you didn’t quite understand his line of thinking, but you didn’t mind. The words rolled off your tongue almost like a playful scolding. “I love you.”

You jolted awake, heart hammering, wrists straining against the restraints.

Even as the dream faded, your body remembered it.

The weight of his arm, the warmth of his chest, the press of his lips to your skin.

You were burning, not with hate or anger, but something else…

Your restraints were still in place. The sterile air had no warmth. Your skin felt too tight, your throat dry, and your heart was racing. You were sweating. You didn’t understand why your hands trembled.

You were still flushed when the door hissed open.

Hesh stepped in, his uniform half-buttoned, dog tags swinging slightly as he walked in. His eyes were tired, but alert, like he hadn’t slept much, either. He didn’t speak right away, just stood there, holding a thermal mug, steam curling up from the top.

You couldn’t look at him, not at first. Suddenly he was too real and you were too raw.

“Morning,” he said gently. You didn’t reply, eyes fixed on the far wall. “Did you sleep okay?”

You shrugged, cheeks hot. You felt like a teenager again. Embarrassed and flustered.

You didn’t know how to lie, not when the memory of his skin was still pressed into yours like a bruise. You swallowed hard.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. You couldn’t speak. Not with the feel of his skin still clinging to your palms. Not with the echo of I love you still buzzing in your head. You finally looked up, just for a second, and met his gaze.

It hit like a punch to the gut.

You knew those eyes. Dark green, like a storm passing by a foggy window. You’d stared into them a hundred times before. In war zones, in med tents, in beds with tangled sheets. You knew him.

But Rorke had warned you. “They’ll get in your head,” he’d said. “Make you think things, make you feel things. You can’t trust them.”

You were quick to turn your head away, finding a smudge on the wall to fix your gaze on. “I had a dream,” you whispered. You weren’t sure why you were telling him.

“Good or bad?”

You paused. “...Both.”

He didn’t push, but stepped over to your bed before sinking down onto it, barely sitting on the edge.

His presence was warm. quiet. A tether to something you didn’t understand. For the first time since waking up here, you didn’t want to run from it.

“Maybe your brain’s starting to fight back,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s remembering what it was like… to be loved.”

Silence settled between you, with only the sound of your vitals monitors buzzing in the background. After a long moment, you spoke.

“You have a scar,” you whispered. “On your ribs. A small one. Crescent shaped.”

He blinked, then nodded slowly. “Broke two ribs falling off a roof when I was fifteen,” he said. “You used to trace it when you couldn’t sleep.”

You looked down, before you went on, your voice barely audible. “You have two stars tattoos on the back of your right arm.”

Hesh didn’t reply, but placed his mug on the counter across from your bed. He shrugged off his fatigue jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his grey t-shirt.

There it was: two black stars tattooed on the back of his right bicep.

Your breath caught in your throat. If Rorke had been telling the truth, how did you know about Hesh’s scars? His tattoos?

You felt a migraine coming on and desperately wanted to press a hand to your forehead. Your wrists flexed against your cuffs. “Why do I feel like I miss you… and hate you… at the same time?”

“Because the real you is still in there,” Hesh murmured. “And she’s trying to come home.”

You finally met his eyes and something squeezed tightly in your chest. “What if I never make it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll keep coming back here. Every damn day until you do.”

masterlist

header by me it’s my first one leave me be