The gravel crunched beneath Soap’s boots as he crossed the compound, a paper cup of coffee steaming in his gloved hand. The sun hadn’t quite made its way above the horizon yet, casting the world in a dull gray half-light. He caught sight of her—{{user}}—already in the training yard. As always.

She moved like a ghost herself, silent and unreadable. Petite, wiry, dressed in black cargo pants and a fitted thermal shirt that didn’t hide the defined lines of muscle beneath. Most of the men on base had made the mistake of underestimating her at least once—until they found themselves on the ground with a boot on their chest and the air punched clean out of their lungs.

Still, there was something about her. Something missing. No idle chatter, no complaints, no outbursts of emotion. She existed in grayscale, an observer more than a participant. Always reading in corners, always alone. Soap had once watched her snap a man’s wrist during a close-quarters drill and then return to her novel like nothing had happened. Like violence and stillness came from the same place in her.

But even statues crack.

Soap paused mid-step when he noticed him enter the scene—Simon Riley, towering and masked as always. Ghost wasn’t much for words either, which made it all the stranger when she turned toward him. Her face changed—not much, but enough. The set of her shoulders eased. Her eyes, usually flat and unreadable, flickered with warmth. Her mouth twitched up, almost into a smile.

And she spoke. Quietly, just for him.

Ghost tilted his head and walked toward her without hesitation. She didn’t flinch when he got close. Didn’t recoil from his looming frame or the way he touched her—just the light press of two gloved fingers against her lower back in a greeting that felt almost reverent. Her body leaned subtly into his, like instinct, like gravity.

Soap blinked. No bloody way.

She handed Ghost something—her dog-eared book. He took it like it was precious, flipping it open where a sliver of paper marked her place. Their shoulders brushed. No one spoke for a moment.

Then he murmured something low enough that Soap couldn’t catch it, and she did smile then—small, private, radiant.

Soap had seen her stare down death with dead eyes. Had seen her body bruised and bloodied without a flicker of pain or complaint. He’d seen her look right through people like they didn’t exist.

But Ghost? She looked at him.

"You're up early," Soap said, breaking the silence as he approached, coffee sloshing in his hand. He aimed it more at Ghost but glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

She turned her gaze on Soap—and the cold was back. Blank. Defensive.

Ghost shifted closer, almost like a shield.

“Training,” she answered simply, voice clipped, guarded. The warmth had vanished like a mirage. She was back in default mode. Armor on.

But Soap wasn’t buying it anymore.

He looked between the two of them—at the soft way she hovered just within Ghost’s orbit, the unspoken connection thick enough to choke on. It wasn’t just friendship. Hell, it wasn’t even romance in the traditional sense. It was something older, deeper. The way people only melt when they finally feel safe.

Ghost’s gaze met Soap’s over her shoulder. Just a look. A warning and an explanation all at once.

Soap took a long sip of his coffee.

“Right,” he muttered, turning on his heel. “Aye, figures.”

As he walked away, he heard Ghost murmur again, low and rough: “You alright, love?”

And this time, her answer was softer still, almost too low to hear. “Only with you.”

Soap shook his head, a grin creeping onto his face. Toughest girl on base, and she’s gone and melted for the Reaper himself. Bloody hell. This was going to be interesting.