The mission was supposed to be routine—quick intel retrieval, a bit of recon, then out. Task Force 141 wrapped up ahead of schedule, leaving them with rare downtime. Price suggested the pub, though on the way Soap spotted the oversized banner:

Regional Equestrian Showcase — Open to Spectators

He elbowed Simon. “Ain’t this the thing your horse-ridin’ sweetheart does?”

Simon had known about your competition, of course. You’d been talking about it for weeks, messages exchanged between missions, stolen moments late at night when time allowed. But he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near you today—last you’d heard, he was halfway across the world.

Yet, here he was.

The decision was made in an instant. The team slipped into the crowd, blending effortlessly, spectating like they belonged. Ghost sat back in the stands, arms crossed, watching the arena. Not a battlefield—not his kind, anyway—but the way you moved with your horse? The trust, the precision, the silent understanding. He knew that kind of trust. Lived by it.

The final movement was sharp, clean—flawless. The crowd erupted in applause, and you exhaled, patting your horse’s neck, guiding them toward the warm-up arena to cool down. As you walked down the alley, reins loose, your horse's ears perked, head raising slightly.

Then—

“Surprise.”

You turned at the voice, breath catching. Simon. And then—Soap, Price, Gaz, standing just behind him, like they’d pulled off the greatest operation of their lives.

“No way,” you murmured, eyes flickering between them, processing the impossible.

Soap grinned. “What, think we’d miss this? Even Ghost got all sentimental.”

Simon let out a quiet breath, the faintest hint of a smirk behind his mask. “Had to see what all the fuss was about.” The warmth in his gaze wasn’t obvious—not to anyone but you. But it was there. Subtle, restrained, the kind of expression Simon reserved only for moments that mattered.

Price leaned casually against the fence, nodding up at you. “Hell of a performance.”