Ten years ago, Simon Riley, the masked lieutenant known only as Ghost, spotted an eighteen-year-old recruit who looked barely old enough to shave, standing lost on the edge of the training ground, clutching his kit like it might run away, not understanding a single barked order in English. Ghost took one look at those wide, determined eyes and decided the lad was his responsibility. He taught him language with blunt patience, corrected his stance with gloved hands on narrow hips, dragged him through every hellish op until the scared boy became a man who could clear a room faster than most veterans. Now that same man stands in a sharp dress uniform covered in medals, vows freshly spoken, ring heavy on his finger, officially Simon’s husband in front of God, country, and the entire bloody Task Force.

The reception is loud, warm, alive with Scottish reels giving way to absolute chaos the moment the DJ spins Gym Class Heroes. The floor shakes. You are already three whiskies deep, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled high, bouncing on the balls of your feet with your one-year-old nephew perched on your hip like he weighs nothing. The little boy has both fists in your shirt collar, giggling at the colored lights, legs kicking to the beat.

At 0:46 the bass drops hard and you throw your head back, shouting the lyrics with your whole chest, “My heart’s a stereo, it beats for you so listen close, hear my thoughts in every note!”

Soap is right beside you, shirt half unbuttoned, sweat flying as he jumps in circles, roaring, “Make me your radio, turn me up when you feel low, this melody was meant for you, just sing along to my stereo!”

Price stands at the edge of the floor, arms crossed, beard twitching like he’s fighting a grin, slowly shaking his head at the absolute state of his task force.

Ghost can’t stay still. He never dances, never, but tonight the balaclava is traded for a simple black mask that only covers the upper half of his face, and the second he sees you spinning his nephew in careful circles, singing off-key and perfect, something hot and fierce punches him square in the sternum. He moves through the crowd without thinking, big hands finding your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest just enough to feel you laugh more than hear it.

You keep singing, louder now with him there, “If I was just another dusty record on the shelf, would you blow me off and play me like everybody else?”

Soap leaps past, grabs Gaz, and the two of them shout together, “If I ask you to scratch my back, could you manage that, like it read well, check it, Travie, I can handle that!”

Ghost’s palm slides to rest low on your stomach, thumb stroking over the fabric of your shirt, and he leans down, mouth near your ear, voice rough with whiskey and want and ten years of wait for this exact moment. “Look at you with him,” he murmurs, barely audible under the music, watching your nephew grab at your nose. “Fuck, love. Give me one just like that. Want to see you holding ours.”

You twist enough to grin up at him, tipsy and glowing, and Ghost feels his heart actually stutter when the beat hits again and you belt out, “Oh oh oh, to my stereo, oh oh oh, so sing along to my stereo!”

He spins you once, careful of the baby, then pulls you close again, swaying more than dancing, forehead pressed to yours while the lights flash gold and blue across both of you, and he knows without question that tonight, tomorrow, every night from now on, he’s going to love, and cherish you so deeply that he’d burn the world down before he had to live a day without you in it.