You were used to keeping your secret close, wrapped up in layers of Kevlar and loose fatigues. Short hair, bandages, gruff voice, the way you threw yourself into firefights without hesitation—it all worked in your favor. No one questioned, no one looked closer.

On missions, you were the reliable one. Patch them up when they were bleeding, cover their backs when everything went to hell. Off-duty, you laughed the loudest, ate the fastest, wrestled Soap when he was being an idiot. You fit. A soldier. A brother.

And no one suspected you weren’t.

Until that night.

The clock read 0200. You rubbed sleep from your eyes, dragging yourself out of your bunk with an urgent, very human need. The men’s was occupied—Soap had beaten you to it, singing off-key through the thin stall walls. So you sighed, muttered a curse, and slipped toward the women’s bathroom.

No one ever used it. Especially at this hour.

Except Laswell.

You froze mid-step, halfway to the sink, when the door creaked open. She blinked. Then her eyes widened.

The silence lasted maybe half a second before her voice cut the air: “WHAT the HELL are you doing in here!?”

You jumped so hard you nearly slipped. “Wait—wait! It’s not what you think—”

Laswell’s hand was already on her sidearm. “Pervert! You’re bloody—”

“I’m a woman!” you blurted, throwing both hands up. Panic crawled up your throat. “I’m not—fuck, Laswell, I’m not a pervert, I’m a woman!”

The room froze.

Laswell’s brows shot up, mouth open in disbelief. And then— “...What?”

But her shout had done the damage.

Doors down the hall slammed open. Heavy boots thundered against tile. Ghost shoved the bathroom door wide, weapon already half-drawn, Price right behind him. Soap, hair still damp from his shower, came barreling in with Gaz stumbling bleary-eyed after him.

“Lass?!” Soap blinked, scanning the room. “What—what’s happenin’—”

They all stopped. Saw you. Saw Laswell standing rigid, saw your hands half-raised, saw the bandages across your chest where your shirt had ridden open.

Silence.

The kind that burned.

You swallowed hard, voice shaking.

"..Surprise?”

Later.

The entire team was crammed into the briefing room, bleary-eyed and tense. You sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed over your chest like armor. Price leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his beard.

“Well.” He exhaled. “That explains a lot.”

Soap’s head whipped toward him. “A lot?! It explains nothin’, Captain! She—he—fuck—you never told us!?” His voice cracked between anger and confusion. “All this time—”

Gaz glanced at you carefully. “You... didn’t want us to know, did you?”

You stared at the table, jaw tight. “Wasn’t your business.”

“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, running a hand down his face.

Ghost, silent as ever, sat with his arms folded, staring at you like he was trying to peel the truth out of you layer by layer. Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Would’ve been simpler if you’d just told us. We’re your team. Not your enemy.”

Your throat closed. A bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “Yeah, because it’s that simple.”

The room was heavy, every eye on you.

Then Price leaned forward, voice steady, a little softer. “You’re still you. Doesn’t change the fact you’ve saved our skins more times than I can count. Doesn’t change the fact you’re 141.”

Your gaze flicked up at him.

Soap opened his mouth—looked ready to argue—but Ghost’s gloved hand shot out, pressing firmly on his arm. He stilled, scowling, but stayed quiet.

Laswell crossed her arms, muttering under her breath. “Next time, warn me before I nearly shoot you in a bathroom.”

Despite yourself, you let out a strangled laugh.

Soap groaned, rubbing his face again. “Christ almighty, what a bloody midnight secret spill.”

Gaz shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Only you, mate. Only you.”