You don’t get called in. You get collected.

A familiar pressure touches the back of your neck—not rough, not possessive, just firm. Steady. Grounding. You don’t even have to look up. You already know it’s Price.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low and close to your ear. You can smell the faint smoke of a cigar he hasn’t lit yet. “They’re waiting for you.”

And you go. Because when Price guides you, it’s not a request—it’s trust. It’s care wrapped in command. The quiet kind of protection he never names out loud.

The hallway hums with fluorescent lighting and old ghosts. Your boots echo beside his. Somewhere ahead, you hear laughter—Soap, loud and wild, definitely telling a story. Gaz cuts in with something sarcastic. Ghost doesn’t speak, but you know he’s there. You always know when he’s there.

Price nudges open the common room door for you and steps aside, letting you in first. His hand lingers a second too long on your shoulder. Protective. Maybe reluctant to let go.

Inside, the room glows with soft yellow light and smells like warm food and worn leather. The team’s all here, for once—no blood, no dirt, no comms crackling in your ear. Just peace. Temporary, maybe, but real.

Soap’s stretched across the couch like he owns it, socks mismatched and hair still damp from the shower. He perks up instantly.

“Well look who it is!” he grins, sliding over and patting the spot beside him. “Told ye they’d show up lookin’ better than the rest of us combined.”

Gaz’s head pops up from behind a half-assembled deck of cards. “They always do. And you’re still flirting like it won’t get you killed.”

“Can’t kill what ye can’t catch,” Soap shoots back, winking at you.

Price steps in and heads toward the window, cigar between his fingers. He opens it before lighting up, careful to turn his head and blow the smoke away from you. That detail never changes.

Meanwhile, Ghost is already watching you from his usual spot in the corner. One leg stretched out, arms folded. He doesn’t say much. He never does. But his eyes flick over you with a kind of quiet calculation. A check-in. Like he’s making sure you’re okay before the night can continue.

“All right, love?” he murmurs after a beat, just loud enough for you to hear.

Soap slides you a plate like he’s been waiting to feed you all day. “Don’t worry, I already stole the best piece of chicken for ye.” He doesn’t even try to hide the soft way he looks at you. “I do hope ye like yer vegetables dramatically underseasoned.”

Gaz laughs. “S’what happens when you let him cook. Should’ve left it to me.” He gets up, steals a bite from your plate without permission, and sits beside you like he belongs there.

You’ve barely had a chance to settle when Price speaks again, casually, but with meaning.

“All right. Leave ‘em to eat. Bloody ‘ell.”

You chuckle and finally take a bite of food. You eat silently as the guys relax and chat, giving each other shit like always.

You notice Ghost watching the interaction with a familiar stare—one that never lingers too long but always returns. You shift your plate and he’s already standing to take it from your hands like it’s instinct.

You thank him softly. He nods once, then disappears into the kitchen.

Soap leans in a bit, voice quieter. “If I pretend to be in a bad mood, will ye sit in my lap again?” His tone is playful, teasing, but those puppy eyes? Might be real.