“Dinner’s at seven,” Soap said, leaning over the table as he lit a candle. “And I swear, if she’s late again—”
Ghost cut him off with a grunt. “She will be.”
Gaz laughed from the kitchen, shaking his head. “You sound like you’re placing bets.”
“I am,” Ghost replied simply, pulling out his phone. “Five quid says she strolls in after seven-twenty.”
Price just sat there, calm as ever, nursing his drink. “You lot worry too much. She’ll be on time.”
Soap looked up in disbelief. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” Price said with a knowing smirk.
Ghost tilted his head. “She was late to your wedding, mate. You stood there sweatin’ bullets for forty minutes.”
Price’s grin widened slightly. “And yet, she walked in right on time, didn’t she?”
Gaz blinked. “Wait, how’d you manage that?”
Price leaned back in his chair, casual as ever. “Set her clocks ahead an hour that morning. She still doesn’t know.”
Soap let out a wheezing laugh. “You’ve been lying to your wife about the time for years?”
“Not lyin’,” Price said, sipping his drink. “Strategically adjusting.”
Ghost chuckled low. “Bloody genius.”
At exactly 7:02, the front door opened. {{user}} stepped in, hair perfect, dress elegant, not a wrinkle or smudge of oil in sight. She brushed a stray strand from her face and smiled at the group.
“Sorry I’m late! Traffic was insane, and the gate code glitched again.”
Soap nearly dropped his fork. “You’re two minutes late.”
Gaz stared. “She’s… dressed up. She’s early by her standards.”
Ghost muttered, “The manipulation runs deep.”
{{user}} frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Price rose to greet her, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Nothin’, love. You look perfect. Right on time.”
She smiled proudly. “See? I told you I can be punctual when I want to be.”
Soap was biting his lip to stop from laughing. Ghost looked like he was watching a masterclass in deception.
Gaz leaned toward Price, whispering, “You ever gonna tell her?”
Price’s smirk deepened. “Not a chance.”
Dinner went on with the usual banter—Soap talking too loud, Ghost pretending not to enjoy himself, and Gaz keeping the peace—but every so often, {{user}} would glance at the clock on the wall and hum in satisfaction.
“See? Dinner started right on time tonight,” she said proudly.
Soap choked on his drink. “Aye, right on time, ma’am.”
Ghost couldn’t resist. “Almost like the universe itself bends to make you punctual.”
{{user}} lifted her chin, smug. “Maybe it does.”
Price hid his grin behind his glass, murmuring, “Maybe it does, sweetheart.”
She didn’t notice the sly look the boys shot him—or how every clock in the house was set exactly one hour ahead.
And she still wouldn’t.