The mess hall was dimly lit, the hum of overhead lights mixing with the quiet clatter of utensils and low murmurs from a few scattered tables. Most of Task Force 141 was seated at their usual corner, eating whatever half-decent meal the base cook had managed to throw together. Price nursed a mug of coffee, Ghost sat hunched with his hood up, Gaz poked disinterestedly at his tray, and Soap was mid-story—hands animated, voice just a little too loud.

And {{user}} sat quietly with them. Early twenties, head down, eyes distant. He hadn’t said much all week, not since they’d returned from that last op. A rough one. The kind that lingered.

They all knew.

Of course they did. Price wasn’t a fool, and neither were the others. They’d noticed the signs—the silence, the too-short nights and too-long stares. The cracked mask. But none of them said a word about it aloud. The higher-ups would find a way to ground him, ship him off, maybe even discharge him altogether. Mental health was still a battlefield the brass hadn’t figured out how to navigate.

But here? In 141?

He was safe.

So they watched him. Quietly. Cared for him in the small, unspoken ways soldiers do. Gaz left snacks on his bunk. Ghost would shove a fresh cup of coffee toward him at briefings. Price always made sure he wasn’t alone too long. And Soap? Soap tried the hardest, in his own ridiculous way. Humor. Dumb, loud, relentless humor.

And tonight was no different.

“So I told him—‘That’s not a frag grenade, mate, that’s my mum’s stew!’” Soap announced with a dramatic flair, nearly tipping his tray.

It was such a stupid joke. Dumb. Made no sense.

And then it happened.

{{user}}—hunched and quiet and small—snorted.

Audibly.

A soft, sudden noise like a cough caught off guard, and then—laughter. Real laughter. Bright, from the chest. He tried to cover it with his hand, but it was too late. He laughed.

Soap stopped mid-bite, a huge grin spreading across his face like a sunrise. “There he is,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Knew you were still in there somewhere, sunshine.”

Gaz chuckled too, wide-eyed and proud, practically beaming. “Bloody hell, I haven’t heard him laugh in a week.”

Even Ghost turned slightly in his seat, looking at {{user}}—no expression visible, but something soft shifted in his posture. Watching.

Price didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. He just gave {{user}} a slow, approving nod, eyes warm behind the brim of his cap. The kind of look a man reserves for his own son.

{{user}} wiped his eyes, still smiling. And for the first time in days, the heaviness in the room felt just a little bit lighter.