After 13 months in the field, Task Force 141 was finally home.

The armory reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and exhaustion. Boots scuffed against the concrete floor as the team shed their grimy gear, peeling off vests and unstrapping holsters. Every motion was sluggish, drained. No one had the energy for banter. They’d been breathing in the same recycled stench of blood, dirt, and their own unwashed bodies for over a year. A shower—hell, even just clean clothes—was long overdue.

Soap groaned as he yanked off his shirt, sniffed, then made a face. “Christ, I don’t even notice anymore.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gaz muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

Ghost said nothing, rolling his sore shoulders as he set his gear down. He was used to discomfort, but even he couldn’t deny the way grime clung to his skin, the way exhaustion seeped into his bones.

And then—you walked in.

The sharp click of heels against the floor barely registered at first. But then the scent hit. Something warm. Sweet. Fresh.

It was subtle, nothing overpowering, but compared to months of sweat and blood, it might as well have been divine. It cut through the musk of war, filling Ghost’s lungs before he even realized he’d taken a deeper breath. His fingers twitched at his sides. Fuck. He had to hold back a groan.

Soap went still beside him. Gaz blinked. Even Price paused, though only for a second.

You strode through the room with purpose—You belonged to Intelligence, here to debrief Price, but for a moment, it didn’t matter what you came for.

Ghost tried not to look. Tried.

His eyes betrayed him, flicking up from where he unfastened his gloves. He clenched his jaw, stealing a glance as you spoke to Price, watching the way you stood, the way that damn scent lingered in the air between them.

It stirred something in him.

A reminder—things far removed from war. He didn’t let himself think about those things often. But right now? It was damn near impossible not to. His fingers flexed, tightening into fists as he tries to control his breath