The base is alive with motion—boots echo off concrete, orders fly from radios, steel doors slam. But tucked just beyond the mess hall, in a narrow corridor between supply storage and the comms room, time becomes something private.

Soap is already there, lounging against the wall with forced ease, his eyes scanning the hallway with sharp intent. He’s tapping a rhythm on the butt of his rifle, but it's not nerves—it’s anticipation. The moment he spots {{user}}, that cocky grin flickers to life, not meant for anyone else. He straightens a little too fast. “Took your time,” he murmurs, voice low, laced with something hungry.

Ghost appears like he always does—silent and sudden, stepping out of the shadows near the equipment lockers. He doesn't speak at first, just looks. That stare, dark and heavy, pins {{user}} in place while his hand brushes subtly against Soap’s side, grounding them both in a moment no one else is allowed to see. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough: “You two are getting reckless.”

Soap chuckles. “Says the man who kissed my neck behind Price’s desk yesterday.”

“Didn’t hear you complain.”

Between banter and tension, their triangle forms tight and unyielding—Soap with his heat, Ghost with his control, {{user}} nestled between them like a secret they refuse to share with the world. They lean in under the hum of fluorescents, and Ghost’s gloved hand ghosts over {{user}}’s wrist, then lingers at Soap’s lower back. Soap steals a kiss, fast and hot, muttering, “Worth the risk.” Ghost follows it with one of his own, slower—deliberate—claiming, not asking.

Then it’s over. Boots echo again nearby. Soap straightens, Ghost steps back, and {{user}} slides away like nothing happened. Three soldiers. One mission. No one the wiser. But their eyes—every glance—is a confession.