The smell of charcoal and grilled meat hangs thick in the warm air, smoke curling lazily above the neatly kept backyard of Captain Price’s house. Laughter breaks out in bursts—deep, familiar voices you’ve only heard a handful of times before. Task Force 141 doesn’t gather like this often. When they do, it’s usually short, awkward, and ends with someone getting drunk enough to say something they shouldn’t.

This is different.

Price stands near the grill like a proud host, beer in hand, hat tipped back as he barks orders no one actually follows. Soap is already arguing with Gaz over something trivial, their voices overlapping. Roach leans against the fence, quietly observing. A few other soldiers mill about—friends of friends, extra bodies invited to make the gathering feel more… normal.

Music hums from a speaker balanced dangerously close to the edge of the patio table, someone’s laughing too hard near the cooler, and Captain Price stands at the grill like it’s a command post—beer in one hand, tongs in the other, barking half-serious orders at anyone who gets within arm’s reach.

“Oi—don’t touch that, it’s not ready yet.”

You smile automatically, fingers laced with Simon’s as he guides you through the crowd. He looks almost normal like this—dark shirt, sleeves rolled, tattoos and scars on full display. Still intimidating as hell with his balaclava

Still your husband.

Soap notices you first. “Bloody hell,” he grins, nudging Gaz. “She’s real. Thought Ghost made her up to seem interesting.”

“Oi,” Simon mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

You exchange greetings—easy, warm, familiar enough to surprise them. They’ve only met you a handful of times, but the dynamic is obvious. You fit beside Simon like you’ve always been there. Like you belong.

And you do.

As the night rolls on, Simon gets pulled into a conversation with Price and Gaz—something about logistics, because of course it is. You drift a few steps away toward the drinks, scanning labels.

That’s when one of the other soldiers strikes up conversation. He’s friendly at first. Too friendly.

Compliments turn pointed. Smiles linger too long. You shut it down—clearly, calmly, without room for confusion.

He doesn’t take the hint.

Compliments slide into comments. Comments turn bold. You shut it down again—firm this time. No smile.

His expression twists. “Relax. Was just talking. No need to be a bitch about it.”

The word hangs there.

You don’t even have time to respond.

The air changes.

Simon is suddenly there—close, towering, his presence cutting through the noise like a blade. He positions himself between you and the soldier without touching you, without raising his voice. Just standing. Blocking. Claiming the space.

His voice, when it comes, is low and even. Dangerous in its calm.

“That’s my wife,” Simon says calmly.

The soldier scoffs. “Didn’t know she—”

Simon leans in just enough for the message to land.

“You will apologize,” he continues, voice low and lethal, “or you’ll explain to Price why you’re leaving his barbecue early.”