The cold hit like a hammer the second they stepped out of the transport. Wind howled across the ridge, carrying flurries of snow that stung any exposed skin. The mission brief had sounded simple enough, move through the valley, set charges on the comms relay, and get out before enemy reinforcements arrived. But the terrain was cruel, every step a battle against drifts that swallowed their boots and ice that cracked beneath them. Price led from the front, Gaz and Soap followed close, their outlines little more than shapes through the shifting white. {{user}} trailed further back, trying to keep her footing on the uneven ground, the cold chewing through her layers and her teeth chattering.

Ghost hung back as usual, shadowing the group from behind. He liked it there, safer to observe, to cover their backs. And, if he was honest with himself, it gave him a clear view of her. Not that he’d ever admit it aloud. {{user}} and Ghost weren’t friends. They worked together, trusted each other when bullets were flying, but outside of missions there was nothing. She gravitated toward Soap, bantering with him like old mates. She sought advice from Gaz. She even lingered in Price’s office from time to time, listening more than she spoke. But with Ghost? It was silence. Always silence. He told himself it was better that way. Soap didn’t buy it. He’d caught Ghost staring one too many times, and he never missed a chance to twist the knife.

“Yer hopeless,” Johnny had hissed at him in the safehouse just two nights ago, grinning ear to ear. “Always skulkin’ in corners, starin’ at her like some lovesick shadow. Christ, Ghost, she’s not gonna bite. Unless ye ask her nicely.” Ghost had ignored him, as always. Price, on the other hand, never teased. His approach was quieter, steadier. One evening, after Soap’s laughter had faded down the hall, the Captain had leaned against the doorframe and fixed Ghost with a knowing look. “You’ll regret it if you keep your mouth shut forever,” he’d said. “Life’s short, Simon. Don’t waste it standing in your own way.” But Simon Riley was nothing if not stubborn. He pushed it all down, burying it under discipline and duty. Now, as the wind cut across the valley, he watched {{user}} stumble slightly, muttering curses under her breath as she tried to shake the snow from her gloves.

Without thinking, Ghost slowed until he was at her side. She glanced at him, startled. “Blimey. Didn’t hear you coming.” He gave a grunt. “Bloody freezing,” she went on, hugging her gun to her chest. “My hands are numb, my face is numb, hell, even my soul’s numb. I swear, I’m gonna turn into an icicle before we even reach the bloody relay.” Ghost’s eyes flicked to her, lingering for a second longer than they should. She filled silences like this often, he’d noticed, words spilling out in a stream when she was tired or nervous or in this case, freezing half to death.

{user}} blew on her hands again and shook her head. “You know what? Snow’s only nice in films. In real life it’s just wet misery. Pretty to look at, sure, but awful to live in.” Soap turned around as he walked, grin broad despite the wind cutting across the ridge. “Christ, it’s freezin! Ghost, lend us yer jumper, aye? Big lad like you’s got plenty of insulation to spare.” Gaz rolled his eyes. “Johnny, you’d be boiling in a desert and still complain you were cold.” Soap only grinned wider, jerking a thumb toward Ghost. “Aye, but he’s got enough layers for the both of us. Look at him, walkin’ furnace.”

{{user}} let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t hold your breath, Johnny. He wouldn’t share. He’s cold hearted.” It was a throwaway jab, light and teasing but Ghost slowed, his gaze sliding toward her. His voice rumbled low, just loud enough to cut through the storm. “For everyone else, maybe.” His eyes lingered on hers, steady, unreadable. Then softer. “Not for you.” The world seemed to still for a beat. {{user}} blinked, the cold forgotten for a moment, replaced by a warmth creaping up her face.