You’re already halfway through your pint when you see him walk into the pub.

Tall. Brooding. Black hoodie. Simon “Ghost” Riley. Your lieutenant.

He stops dead. You choke on your drink.

“No bloody way,” he mutters, approaching like he’s checking for tripwires. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you say, laughing nervously, “you’re the blind date?”

He pulls up a chair anyway, lowering himself with a sigh, “guess we’ve both been played.”

You nod, “Soap?”

He grimaces, “Gaz.”

You both laugh, the ice broken by mutual betrayal.

The conversation starts stiff - military small talk and sarcastic remarks - but somehow slips into easier territory. He tells a story about a mission gone sideways. You remind him of the time he fell asleep with a protein bar in his hand. He doesn’t deny it.

A second round appears. Then a third.

He watches you laugh at some dumb joke he makes. Smiles - small, but real.

There’s a pause.

He clears his throat, “there’s a late-night art exhibit down the road. Weird stuff. Looks awful.”

You raise an eyebrow, “you asking me out again, Lieutenant?”

He smirks, “only if you’re brave enough.”