The team had known long before they admitted it. Soap and {{user}} weren’t obvious. They weren’t hand holding in the corridors obvious. They were quieter than that. Subtle. It was the way Johnny always made sure she was the last one through a doorway. The way {{user}} automatically reached for his sleeve when a briefing dragged on too long and she needed grounding. The way they stood just slightly closer than necessary. It had started slowly. Late night tea in the mess after missions. Inside jokes no one else understood. Soap teasing her about her music taste. {{user}} stealing his beanie and refusing to give it back. Ghost had noticed first. Price had pretended not to. They’d never officially announced it. They didn’t need to.

The first time she said it wasn’t dramatic. They’d been sitting on the floor of his barracks, backs against the bed, takeaway bags between them. She’d been tracing the lines on his palm, following the scars like she was memorising them. “Johnny?” she’d said softly. “Aye?” There was a pause. A small one. But heavy. “I love you.” It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t whispered like a secret. It was steady. Certain. He felt it hit him before he understood it. His chest tightening. His throat going dry. For a second, he just stared at her. “I love you,” she repeated, quieter now, like she was giving him room to run if he needed to. Johnny didn’t run. He cupped her face instead, rough hands suddenly careful and kissed her like he was sealing something sacred. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just sure. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. “I love you too,” he said, voice low and unsteady in a way no one else ever heard. After that, it wasn’t just implied. It was real.

On missions, he was still Sergeant MacTavish. Controlled. Tactical. Focused. But the moment the bomb went off and {{user}} disappeared in the smoke…he wasn’t Sergeant MacTavish. He was Johnny. The blast ripped through the street without warning. The ground shaking beneath his boots. His ears rang so violently it felt like silence. “{{user}}!” he shouted but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Dust swallowed everything. Concrete. Fire. He’d seen her two seconds before. Just ahead of him. Then she was gone. Price told him to secure the perimeter. To assess. To move with the team. Johnny didn’t care. He tore through the smoke anyway. “{{user}}!” This time it came out hoarse. Raw. He stumbled over broken masonry, hands scraping on jagged edges as he dug through rubble that hadn’t even finished settling. His gloves tore. His palms burned. He didn’t feel it.

All he could hear in his head was her voice. I love you. Not past tense. Not a memory. Present. Alive. “You’re good,” he’d promised her before they rolled out that morning. “Stick with me.” He should’ve been closer. Should’ve seen it. “Johnny!” Price’s voice cut through the haze. He ignored him, dropping to his knees where he thought he’d last seen her. Heart hammering so hard it made him dizzy. He pulled at a slab of concrete that was too heavy. It didn’t move. He tried again. Muscles straining. Breath shaking. “Come on, come on—” His voice cracked. This wasn’t tactical anymore. This wasn’t clean. This was panic. “{{user}}!” he shouted again, and this time it broke. For a terrifying second, there was nothing. Just ringing in his ears. Fire snapping somewhere nearby. Then a cough. Faint. Choked. But there. His head snapped up. He scrambled toward the sound, hands digging frantically. Ghost was beside him now without a word, helping shift debris. Price covering their flank. Johnny’s heart was in his throat. He found her hand first.

Small. Dust covered. Fingers twitching weakly. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you,” he breathed, voice shaking as he cleared the rubble from her face. “Stay with me. Stay with me, love.” Her eyes fluttered, dazed but there. There. Relief hit so hard it nearly dropped him. He pressed his forehead briefly to hers. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that,” he muttered, hands already moving as he checked for bleeding. And then his fingers came away red.