The sun was beating down, the kind of heat that made even battle-hardened soldiers look out of place without gear. Gaz was stretched out under an umbrella with a cold beer, Soap had taken over the Bluetooth speaker, and Price—well, Price was already half asleep in the shade, hat over his eyes.

And then there was Ghost.

Not Lieutenant Riley in tactical gear. Just Simon. Black swim shorts, broad shoulders dripping seawater, tattoos inked dark against pale scarred skin. He moved through the waves like he was on patrol, slow and deliberate, every step sinking heavy into the sand.

Soap, of course, had to ruin the intimidation factor.

“I like ‘em big, I like ‘em chunky…” blasted through the speaker, so loud half the beach turned their heads. Soap nearly doubled over laughing, hands on his knees as he pointed at Ghost like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

Ghost didn’t break stride. He didn’t even glance at Soap. His eyes—light brown, sharp under the dripping shadows of his hair—were locked on you, lounging on the towel like you had nowhere else in the world to be.

He stopped just short of your spot, water still dripping off him, and tilted his head, deadpan as ever.

“Don’t even say it,” he rumbled, voice rough as gravel. “Man walks out the sea one time, and suddenly I’m a bloody music video.”

Soap wheezed behind him, still singing, “I like ‘em round, with something, something…”

Ghost ignored him completely.

“…Move your legs,” he muttered, pointing at your towel with a finger still wet with saltwater. “I’m sittin’ here.”