You keep saying you’re fine...

...but the team has eyes, ears, and functioning frontal lobes; unlike your ex, who apparently operates on three neurons and a good luck charm.

It starts small. Price watches you hovering near your phone between drills, thumb flicking the screen like maybe, maybe, this time there’ll be something worth reading.

Soap clocks the way your face lifts at every notification, only to fall back into that practiced neutral when it’s not them.

Ghost doesn’t say anything at first, just stares over his mask like he’s trying to will your self-respect back into your body.

Even Gaz, king of minding his business, is like: “Mate… we’ve seen hostages with more freedom than you give yourself around them.”

And still...you defend them. “They're busy.” “They're going through things.” “They're just not good at texting.”

Honey, please. Soap has heard better excuses from rookies who forgot their rifles.

Then comes the breaking point: a night out, half the team buzzing from adrenaline and bad bar lighting, when your ex sends one of those classic breadcrumb texts.

A little vague. A little nostalgic. Absolutely useless.

You light up.

Of course you do.

And the boys collectively glitch.

Gaz snatches your phone like it’s contraband. Price mutters, “Bloody hell,” the way he does before a storm.

Ghost leans back in his chair with that slow, disappointed father energy, like he’s mourning every brain cell you’ve ever had.

“You’re joking,” Soap says, staring at the message. “That’s it? That’s all he sent?” He looks at you like you’ve just proudly presented a rock and called it a gemstone.

You try to explain: how it’s progress, how they used to be worse, how they're trying.

That’s when Price’s voice cuts through everything, low and final.

“Enough.”

The table goes quiet. Even the music in the bar seems to shrink away.

Price taps the phone once, like he’s punctuating the thesis statement he’s about to drop on your life.

“If they wanted to be better,” he says, “they would be.”