The mission was done — bloody finally — and for once, the Task Force let themselves breathe. The dim glow of an Irish pub, wood polished smooth by years of laughter and spilled pints, made the perfect backdrop. Price had found the place, claiming it had “character.” Ghost wasn’t arguing; the Guinness was cold, and the air wasn’t filled with gunfire for once.

Behind the bar stood a quiet, sharp-eyed man who poured drinks with practiced ease. The others didn’t know it, but that was his — Simon’s husband. The one secret Ghost had never let slip, tucked away where no one in the Task Force could find it. His private world. His peace.

The night rolled on easy until a woman swaggered up to the table, leaning in close with a flirtatious grin aimed straight at Ghost. “So, what’s under the mask?” she purred.

Soap nearly choked on his drink. Gaz gave a quiet snort. Price just smirked, eyes flicking between Ghost and the bartender polishing glasses a few feet away.

Ghost didn’t say much — he never did — but the team’s laughter and teasing didn’t help. “Love,” Soap said between chuckles, “you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree there.”

The woman blinked, confused. “What, he’s taken or something?”

Ghost sighed, realizing there was no walking out of this one clean. The room felt smaller somehow, and he could feel his husband’s eyes on him from behind the counter.

“Yeah,” Ghost muttered finally, voice low but firm. “I’m married.”

A beat of stunned silence passed. Then, all at once, Price’s eyebrows shot up, Soap’s grin widened, and Gaz nearly dropped his pint.

The bartender only smiled faintly, pouring another round — proud, quiet, and entirely unbothered. After all, Simon Riley had always been a man of few words… but when he spoke, he meant every one.