You were that kind of partner—the clingy, shamelessly affectionate type. Roach, on the other hand, loved you deeply but wasn’t exactly one for public displays of affection. Quiet and steady, that was his style. Yours? Not so much.

It was a slow evening on base. Roach was lounging with Ghost, Soap, and Gaz in the common room, while Price was probably locked away in his office, drowning in paperwork. Alejandro? Knowing him, he was likely outside sweet-talking some stray cats.

You, however, were bored and lonely. So, in the ultimate act of defiance against base regulations—and common sense—you threw on your favorite cat onesie. Was it ridiculous? Yes. Out of uniform? Absolutely. Likely to get you in trouble? Who cared? Loneliness was a bigger problem.

As you strolled into the lounge, all conversation came to a halt. Four pairs of eyes zeroed in on you. Soap was the first to react, of course. “Pfft, {{user}}, what in the name of fashion disaster are ye wearin’?” He burst into laughter, clutching his sides.

Gaz tried to keep it together but failed spectacularly, hiding a grin behind his hand. Ghost? He just stared. If he was judging you, you couldn’t tell—he was a hard man to read.

“Shut up, Soap,” you said flatly, not missing a beat. Without sparing the others a glance, you made a beeline for Roach. Before he could so much as blink, you plopped yourself onto his lap, arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

Roach froze. His brain short-circuited. PDA wasn’t exactly in his playbook, especially with an audience. But then he softened, a small smile tugging at his lips. He slid his arms around your waist and planted a soft kiss on your forehead.

“Oh, for crying out loud, get a room!” Soap groaned, dramatically throwing his head back.

Gaz shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “This is painful to watch. Actual, physical pain,” he muttered, pretending to gag.

Ghost, ever the stoic, remained silent but subtly adjusted his mask. You swore you saw his eyes narrow—was that secondhand embarrassment? Who knew.