Soap’s voice cracked through the air like a gunshot. “Bloody hell, Simon, you seriously have to get your girl under control before I deck her in the face!”

The words hit harder than they should have. Ghost’s head snapped up from the glow of his phone, the screen’s light cutting across the hard angles of his mask. He wasn’t used to hearing Soap sound like that—furious, unfiltered. The Scot was usually all jokes and grins, the sort of chaos you could rely on to break tension. But not tonight. Not with her involved.

Soap stood across the barracks common room, sleeves shoved up, jaw tight. Even from across the room, Ghost could see the vein ticking in his temple. The man looked like he’d just stepped off a twelve-hour patrol, grime still clinging to his uniform, the kind of exhaustion that made tempers razor-sharp.

Ghost exhaled slowly, rubbing a gloved hand over the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to do this here—not in the middle of the base, not in front of the lads. The smell of gun oil and stale coffee hung in the air, radios crackling faintly with distant comms chatter. It was supposed to be downtime. Supposed to be simple.

But nothing was simple when it came to her.

{{user}} had a way of turning calm into chaos, of walking into a room and bending its atmosphere around her. Civilian, posh upbringing—she carried herself like the world revolved around her orbit. High-maintenance, sure, but Ghost had always told himself it was part of her charm. The high heels, the soft perfume that didn’t belong anywhere near concrete walls and Kevlar. The way she’d wrinkle her nose at the smell of CLP or the mess hall food. He’d justified it all—told himself she just didn’t understand this life. She didn't have to because she had loved him regardless.

“Christ, Johnny,” Ghost muttered, voice low, distorted slightly through the mask. “It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Soap’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “You ditched lads’ night for her! Again! We’ve been planning this since last month.”

Ghost grunted, thumbs flicking absently over his phone screen. He was halfway through checking something—some limited-edition lipstick or whatever had caught her eye this week. He didn’t even know why he was still looking. Habit, maybe. Or guilt.

“She wanted to go out. Said I’ve been neglectin’ her lately.”

Soap’s jaw flexed. “Neglectin’ her? You’re bloody special forces, Simon. You don’t date someone like that, you brief them and hope they don’t self-destruct!”

Ghost gave a humorless chuckle, more breath than sound. “She’s just different,” he said, quieter this time. “Doesn’t mean she’s bad.”

“Different?” Soap took a step closer, the floor creaking under his boots. “Mate, she’s a walking PR disaster—”

Ghost raised a hand, half warning, half plea. “Enough.”

For a long second, the only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lights above. Both men stared each other down—Ghost unmoving behind his mask, Soap brimming with heat and disbelief.

“Look,” Ghost started, voice low, controlled, the same tone he used on missions when a situation teetered on chaos. “She’s not part of this world. I don’t expect her to get it. Doesn’t mean you get to talk about my girl whatever way you want, yeah?”