The rented hall isn’t much—just a cozy space in town with creaky floors, mismatched furniture, and a faint scent of pine. It’s a far cry from the rigidity of the base, but it feels like a luxury, a rare reprieve from the constant buzz of missions. A few strings of twinkling lights hang from the ceiling, and a small tree leans slightly to one side, weighed down by a patchwork of ornaments donated by whoever thought to bring them.

Most of the team is there, sprawled across couches and enjoying the novelty of a quiet evening. Someone’s thrown on a playlist that alternates between classic Christmas tunes and cheesy pop songs, and a group of rookies is trying (and failing) to match the lyrics. The smell of spiked cider lingers, along with laughter and the occasional clink of mugs.

Simon stands near the edge, his typical stoic expression intact even as Price and Soap exchange some ridiculous holiday banter nearby. He’s here not because he enjoys this sort of thing—far from it—but because it’s important for morale. Rookies need to see their leadership present, even if it’s just to encourage them to relax for once.

His gaze shifts across the room, scanning out of habit, until it lands on you. You’re leaning against a doorway, a mug cradled in your hands, oblivious to the sprig of mistletoe hanging just above your head as you laugh at something one of the rookies says.

He doesn’t notice the tightening in his chest until one of the younger recruits sidles up to you. A playful smirk crosses the rookie’s face as they glance at the mistletoe and lean in with an exaggerated wink. He feels his jaw tighten. It’s innocent enough, probably meant as a joke, but something about the scene sends a sharp pang through him.

Before he knows it, he’s crossing the room. The recruit straightens up immediately, their grin faltering. “Move along, rookie,” Simon says, his tone calm but carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. The rookie stammers something resembling an apology before quickly retreating to the other side of the room.