Going on a mission alone with Simon Riley—unless you were {{user}}—was hell. Simon knew it. He didn’t bother softening the edges for anyone else. Without his girlfriend at his side, he ran on instinct, caffeine, and whatever scraps of sleep his insomnia allowed. Full Lieutenant-mode: clipped orders, steel spine, eyes like gunmetal beneath the skull balaclava. He became colder than the Arctic wind biting through Oymyakon’s frozen streets.

With {{user}}, though, it was different. Simon could feel it in his bones. His shoulders loosened, the constant tension in his neck easing just a fraction. He smiled more—small, unseen smiles behind the skull—and sometimes, miraculously, he slept. Really slept. It unsettled Soap and Ria, the other half of Task Force 141’s unofficial couples club. Seeing Ghost soften was somehow worse than dealing with him at his hardest.

The safe house was old, timber creaking under the weight of snow piled on the roof. Frost clawed at the windowpanes, turning the world outside into a blur of white and shadow. Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil, dust, and cold iron. Price and Gaz were already out cold in the next room, each claiming a narrow single bed like disciplined soldiers. Soap and Ria drew the short straw—two double beds, one room, shared with Simon and {{user}}.

“This ain’t bad,” Soap had said earlier, trying to sound cheerful. “Just one big sleepover.”

Ria laughed softly as she fluffed their pillows, dark hair loose over her shoulders. Simon barely registered it. He was already seated on the edge of the bed with {{user}}, long legs stretched out, boots kicked off nearby. His broad frame took up most of the mattress, tactical shirt clinging to muscle worn hard by years of service. He wrapped an arm around {{user}}’s waist, pulling her in without thinking. She fit there like she belonged—warm against his side, grounding.

Simon lay back eventually, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the old house settle. The cold tried to creep in, but {{user}} was warm, solid, real. His breathing slowed. For once, his mind followed.

What Soap and Ria didn’t know—what Simon rarely admitted even to himself—was that he snored. Loudly. Not the gentle kind, either. The kind that rattled in his chest and tore out of him like distant artillery fire. And {{user}}? She slept through everything. Dead to the world. Simon could probably set off a breach charge and she wouldn’t stir.

By two in the morning, Simon was deep under. Arm heavy over {{user}}, skull mask pushed up just enough to reveal the scarred line of his jaw. Each breath saw his chest rise and fall, followed by a low, thunderous snore that vibrated the mattress.

Across the room, Soap lay stiff as a board, eyes wide open, staring into the dark.

“Bloody hell…”

Ria pinched the bridge of her nose, already regretting every life choice that had led her here.