Most people thought {{user}} was just private.

He was sharp, efficient, tough — the kind of soldier who never complained, never hesitated, never got close enough for anyone to see the cracks. That was how he liked it. That was how he survived. He joined the military at nineteen, fresh out of a town that spat on anything different. His first unit had been a small, tight-knit group — mostly men, mostly cocky, mostly the kind of guys who called each other “bro” and tossed slurs around like confetti. They didn’t like him much. Not at first. He was too serious, too direct, too good at his job. And when they found out — when he trusted one of them enough to say he liked men — the tide turned fast. He heard the whispers behind his back.

Fags don’t belong in the barracks. No wonder he keeps to himself — probably checking us out. Bet he’s staring in the showers.

Command didn’t care. He filed a complaint once. It disappeared. His trust went with it. So he learned. Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut. Laugh when they want you to. Never give them more than what they already assume. By the time he made Task Force 141, {{user}} had walls so high no one even bothered to look over them.

Except for Ghost.

He didn’t climb them, didn’t ask for a key — he just sat on the other side, unbothered by the silence, waiting. Not in a pushy way. Just in the way someone does when they understand isolation isn’t always a choice. Their friendship grew in the spaces between missions — in half-smiles passed between cover fire, in tired nods after grueling debriefs, in shared jokes spoken low and dry, meant only for each other. Ghost never asked more of him than he gave. Never probed. Never treated him like a mystery to solve.

But he noticed things.

He noticed how {{user}} never joined in on locker room talk. Not out of shyness — just quiet detachment, practiced indifference. He noticed how he tensed when the new recruits flirted, when the others nudged him with questions about “types” and “what he was into.” He noticed how he dodged the topic every single time, like it burned. He noticed the way he looked at people when he thought no one was watching — always guarded, always brief. But once or twice, when Davies walked past, something in his expression softened. Just a flicker. Just long enough for Ghost to file it away. He had suspicions. But he never said anything.

Until {{user}} did.

It was late. Most of the team had long since crashed. The only light came from a single desk lamp in the corner of the briefing room, casting a low, gold glow. {{user}} sat on the floor, back against the wall, boots unlaced, half a protein bar forgotten in his hand. Ghost sat across from him, mask pushed up just enough to drink his tea. He watched him over the rim of the cup, saying nothing — like always.

He swallowed, then said it. “I’m gay.” He didn’t look at Ghost when he said it. Didn’t need to. The words hung there, no drama, no buildup — just truth. Ghost froze for the barest moment, just long enough for {{user}} to catch it. His eyes flicked up from his tea, sharp and steady, but something behind them shifted — like he was recalibrating, taking it in. Then he leaned back against the wall with a slow exhale, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Huh.” {{user}} raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Didn’t see that coming,” Ghost said, voice low, half-joking but honest. He laughed softly. “Neither did I.” Ghost met his eyes then, more openly. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Didn’t know if I should.” He shook his head. “Nah. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. But I’m glad you did.” He let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Most people act like it’s some big secret. Or like I’m supposed to change.”

“Not me,” Ghost said firmly. “Doesn’t change how I see you.” They settled back into a comfortable silence, the kind that felt lighter now — like a secret shared but not burdened. “So? Who’s the lucky guy?” {{user}} nudged him with his boot. “Watch it, Ghost.”