When did that happen?
You’d known them for years. Trained beside them, fought beside them, argued beside them. Sweat, grime, blood: you’d seen it all. The Task Force wasn’t glamorous, and neither were the men on it. They were teammates, colleagues, the ones you trusted to have your back when everything went loud. You’d filed them away neatly in that part of your brain labeled professional. Safe. Untouchable.
But something shifted. Maybe you’d been gone a while, buried in intelligence work, chasing leads from some godforsaken bunker while they carried the weight on the ground. Maybe it was just the first time you’d looked up in months, really looked.
Suddenly...holy hell.
Soap, leaning against the barracks wall with his easy grin, t-shirt stretched just so over his shoulders. Ghost, quiet in the corner, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, mask shadowing eyes that caught yours and lingered just a fraction too long. Price, posture casual but every inch of him command and presence, hat tipped low over the kind of smirk that should be illegal. Gaz, laughing at something, head thrown back, jawline carved sharper than you remembered.
When did they get hot? No, when did you start noticing? Because they’ve always been them. Always sharp, deadly, larger-than-life; but, here you are, pulse skipping, thoughts derailed, like your body suddenly remembered something your brain refused to admit: they’re not just soldiers. They’re men. Men who’ve grown into themselves in ways you weren’t prepared for.
You catch yourself staring. Catch yourself cataloguing things you shouldn’t: Soap’s laugh lines, Ghost’s hands, the weight of Price’s gaze, the way Gaz’s shirt clings in the heat. You blink, try to shake it off, but it clings to you anyway.
You’re not supposed to be thinking this. Not about them. Not like this.
finally, the thought slips in, traitorous and unstoppable: