Ghost didn’t date. Not because he couldn’t, if he ever took his mask off and actually tried, Soap swore half the population would line up. But Ghost kept himself apart from people. His life was compartmentalised. Missions, debriefs, downtime, repeat. There wasn’t space for distractions. Attachments only led to weakness, and weakness got people killed. He’d seen it happen too many times. So when Soap came sauntering into the common room with that cheeky grin plastered across his face and announced, “Got somethin’ for you, Ghostie boy,” the lieutenant was already bracing himself. “I’m not interested,” Ghost muttered, eyes still on the report in his hands. “You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“Don’t need to. If it involves fun, socialising, or you, the answer’s no.” Soap flopped onto the couch beside him, elbowing his arm. “C’mon, mate. Ava and I, well, you know about us.” Ghost looked up. Everyone knew about Soap and Ava. The sergeant had been smitten from the moment Ava joined Task Force 141, and to everyone’s surprise she hadn’t just tolerated his constant chatter, she’d matched him. They were a good pair, balanced in ways Ghost couldn’t imagine himself being with anyone. “And?” Ghost said flatly. “And,” Soap drawled, “Ava’s got a sister. {{user}}. Sergeant, same as her. Sharp, quick on her feet, good head on her shoulders. She’s single.” Ghost closed the report with a snap. “Not happening.” Soap blinked. “You don’t even know her.” “I don’t need to know her. I don’t date, Johnny.”

“You don’t date because you don’t try,” Soap shot back, grinning as if he’d just cornered him in a game of chess. “This isn’t about fallin’ head over arse in love. Just a double date. Dinner, drinks. The four of us. Normal.” Ghost let out a short laugh, cold, humorless. “Nothing about me is normal.” Soap leaned forward, expression softening just enough. “That’s the point. She’s not normal either. She’s one of us. Knows the life, knows the job. Won’t spook if you’re quiet, won’t prod if you don’t wanna talk. Just give it a shot, aye?” Ghost stared at him for a long moment. His gut screamed no. His instinct was to shut this down and go back to the simplicity of solitude. But Soap had that relentless look in his eye, the one that meant he’d keep pushing until Ghost gave in. “Fine,” Ghost muttered. “One night. But if this goes bad, Johnny, you’re buying my drinks for the next year.”

The bar Soap picked was low lit, quiet enough that they wouldn’t be recognised, casual enough that Ghost didn’t feel out of place in his plain black hoodie. Still, it felt wrong walking in bare faced. He’d left the mask behind tonight at Soap’s relentless insistence. They were all already at the table when Ghost arrived. {{user}} was sat next to her sister. Ghost knew her from briefings, missions, always the steady shadow at Ava’s side, quieter but no less capable. She glanced up as he approached. And then, stilled. For the briefest moment, her expression slipped. He saw the flicker of surprise in her face, the subtle widening of her eyes. She had seen him before, of course, on base, on ops but never like this. Never stripped of the skull mask. Her gaze lingered.

Too long. Long enough for Ghost’s jaw to tighten. He knew what she was doing, cataloguing him. High cheekbones, sharp jawline, the faint shadows beneath his eyes carved by years of sleepless nights. She was looking, really looking, and it burned under his skin in a way gunfire never had. He had never cared what people thought of his face. But with her eyes on him, he suddenly did. {{user}} rose slightly in her chair, steadying herself with a hand on the table. She masked the shift quickly, her tone level, but Ghost heard the faint edge in her voice when she spoke. “Lieutenant.”

“Sergeant.” He dipped his head back. Soap groaned. “Bloody hell, the two of ye are hopeless. It’s a date, not a debrief.” {{user}} smirked faintly. Ghost couldn’t tell if it was amusement or discomfort. Maybe both.