The apartment door clicks open before Gaz even knocks twice. “Took your bloody time,” Soap mutters, tugging it wide as the rest of the team steps into the dim entryway. His hair’s still damp from the shower, a dishrag over his shoulder, and he's got that proud-smirk look that usually means he’s either cooking or bragging.

Price gives a once-over of the space — tidy enough, with a few personal touches that clearly don’t belong to soldiers. “Nice place,” he says, pausing near the shoe rack. “Didn’t expect curtains.”

Ghost shrugs from the corner where he’s nursing a mug of something dark. “Soap insisted. Said it makes it ‘homey.’”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Johnny tosses over his shoulder, already heading toward the kitchen. “Gaz, you hungry? I made garlic bread. Might be the only decent thing in this whole damn fridge.”

“You made garlic bread?” Gaz asks, arching an eyebrow at Ghost.

Ghost doesn’t blink. “Pray for us.”

“Oi—” Soap leans out of the kitchen, flour on his hands, mock offended. “You’re just bitter ‘cause you can’t boil water without setting off the fire alarm.”

Price lets out a quiet chuckle as he sheds his jacket. “Feels like I walked into a sitcom.” He glances around, noting the third pair of boots by the door, smaller than the others. "Those belong to {{user}} then?" He raised an eyebrow and smirking.

Soap and Ghost had mentioned their mysterious partner, {{user}}, to Gaz and Price in passing, but the pair had never met them... hopefully today would change that.