{{user}} was the kind of soldier that shouldn’t have belonged in war zones — at least not on the surface. Bright eyes. Open smile. A nervous habit of humming pop songs under her breath. She was golden-haired, golden-hearted, and had been dubbed “the team’s golden retriever” within 72 hours of arriving on base. It wasn’t just the energy — it was the unshakable loyalty, the way she seemed to care too much, too quickly, about people who hadn’t earned it.

Ghost had written her off immediately.

The first time she called him “Ghosty,” he stared her down through his mask and said, flat as a sniper’s scope. “Lieutenant. Or Ghost. Pick one.” {{user}} just grinned. “Lieutenant Ghost, then.” She annoyed the hell out of him. She cracked jokes during mission briefings. She wore a ridiculous cartoon patch on her plate carrier that said “I Pause for Cats.” She made friends with Gaz within a day, Soap within two, and even had Price chuckling when she made a deadpan comment about rats in the ventilation.

But it wasn’t just the energy. It was the way she kept showing up. After every mission. After every bad dream. After every long, sleepless patrol, there she was — handing out ration bar halves or energy drinks like they were love letters, tossing him a soft “You okay, LT?” without expecting an answer. She never expected anything. But she gave everything. That’s what made him uncomfortable. People like her didn’t last in their world. Not intact.

Then came the op in Syria. A quiet recon that went loud too fast.

They got separated. Ghost had to lead a flank through bombed-out buildings, radio jammed, vision half-gone from smoke and grit. He was crouched near a busted wall, checking the corner, when something told him to move. Not instinct — her. “Ghost! Down!” {{user}}’s voice cut through the air like a round from a sniper rifle. A heartbeat later, she hit him from the side, slamming him to the ground just as a sniper’s bullet sliced through the space where his skull had been.

They hit hard. Dust. Impact. Muffled ringing.

He came to with her on top of him, shielding him with her body like some ridiculous action movie trope — only she was real, breathing hard, trembling slightly. “You alright?” she gasped, eyes wide. He stared up at her, dazed. “I’m fine.” he grumbled. Her lips quirked. “Course you are.” He didn’t say anything else. But when she offered him a hand to stand up, he took it.

He didn’t know what changed after that. Only that something had. He didn’t dodge her in the hallway anymore. When she tossed him a protein bar, he caught it and gave a nod. When she rambled about her cat back home — Pascal, apparently — he let her finish instead of walking away. It was slow, quiet. But it was noticed. Soap caught him standing near the shooting range, arms crossed, watching {{user}} try to show a rookie how to correct their stance. She was laughing. The rookie was blushing. Ghost? He didn’t move. Soap elbowed him. “You’re gonna burn a hole in her with those eyes, mate.” Ghost scowled. “Piss off.”

“Just saying. If you start braiding friendship bracelets next, I’m calling HR.” One night, long after most had turned in, {{user}} found him sitting on the edge of the helipad, the wind tugging at his mask. She was wearing slippers, in sweats and a hoodie, holding a cup of coffee. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said, plopping down beside him. He didn’t tell her to leave. Just handed her the thermos from his own pack. They sat in silence, the city lights flickering far below the cliff base. The hum of generators. The buzz of crickets. The occasional crackle of a radio. Then, out of nowhere, she whispered, “You ever gonna tell me your name?” He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the lights. “You already know what matters.”

“I know your callsign. Your rank. Your reputation.” She sipped her coffee. “But not you.” He was quiet for a long time. Then: “Simon.” She blinked. Turned to him, surprised. He still didn’t meet her gaze, but his voice was steady. “My name’s Simon Riley.” She let the silence stretch. Let it settle. Then, softly. “Hi, Simon.”