You’d been with Task Force 141 long enough to know the unspoken laws of the team. Rule number one: Ghost and Laswell despised physical contact. Not just “eh, not my thing” despised—feral cat caught in a net despised.

Or at least, that’s what you thought. Until last week.

Last week, everything changed.

Price had somehow managed to trap Laswell in a hug—a full embrace—and lived to tell the tale. Soap swore he saw her soul leave her body, but no one had video proof, so the jury was still out. And Ghost? Well… Ghost had been mauled. Ambushed. Tackled and restrained by you lot until everyone had gotten a hug in, all at once. It was less “hug” and more “pack of wolves taking down a deer,” but it counted.

What none of you realized was that this had been a setup. A scheme.

Because now, apparently, the tables had turned.

You weren’t exactly touchy yourself. If anything, you avoided affection unless it involved slamming someone’s face into a floor. But the squad had decided, unanimously and cruelly, that since Ghost never showed affection to anyone, he had to show it to you.

And if he refused? Price had threatened him with the ultimate punishment: a week without training.

Which was basically asking Ghost to dig his own grave.

So there you were, sitting in the dining hall, overseeing a gaggle of rookies who were far too loud and far too nosy for their own good. You had your tray in front of you, half-eaten, when the atmosphere shifted.

The rookies went quiet. Not silent, but that ripple of hushed whispers and elbow nudges spread across the tables.

You looked up.

Ghost had just entered the room.

And he was moving.

Not his usual slow, calculated, grim-reaper glide, but a direct approach. Boots thudding against the linoleum floor. Purposeful. Relentless. Like a missile locked on target.

Soap, Gaz, Roach, and Price followed close behind, all looking suspiciously smug.

You raised your eyebrows.

What the hell is this?

The rookies were eating this up. Eyes wide, forks frozen halfway to mouths, waiting like it was about to be the entertainment of the century.

Laswell, of all people, had put down her coffee mug. That woman never put down her coffee.

Ghost stopped in front of you, his looming presence blotting out the fluorescent light above.

He stood there. Silent.

You stared up at him, unimpressed.

Soap leaned over from the peanut gallery, grinning ear-to-ear. “Two minutes, big man. Timer’s ready.”

Two minutes of what?

And then Ghost bent down.

Arms. Around. You.

The room erupted. Soap cackled so hard he nearly fell over. Gaz groaned into his hands, already pulling out his phone to time it. Price looked like he’d just won the lottery. Roach? Roach was already taking bets with the rookies on whether you’d swing at him before the two minutes were up.

You froze. Completely. This wasn’t a hug; this was a siege. Ghost’s grip was iron, like if he loosened it even slightly, Price would drag him to hell for insubordination.

The rookies’ jaws dropped. Some whispered things like, “Is this… is this normal?” “Did Ghost just—hug?” “I thought he was, like, allergic to that?”

You were stuck, half-pinned to your chair.

Ghost, low and flat, muttered back: “Not my choice.”

“Two minutes, mate!” Soap cheered from the sidelines, waving his phone like he was livestreaming. “One-fifty to go!”

The dining hall devolved into absolute chaos. Rookies were chanting. Soap was shouting encouragement. Gaz was facepalming. Price was standing there like a proud dad watching his kids destroy each other. And Laswell—Laswell just sipped her coffee again, smirking like finally, someone else suffers too.