Between missions, the team made the most of the downtime to disconnect from the day and from the horrors they saw over and over again. Price knew how important it was to do things together that had nothing to do with guns or bombs. That’s how the game started, which later turned into a bet.

The stupid idea began like every other barracks nonsense: boredom, too many beers, egos, and Soap running his mouth. It wasn’t that anyone really remembered the details, only that {{user}} had lost and now had to face the punishment: dressing as a woman for the squad’s amusement. Everyone teased him, Soap insisting, “No way out—a bet’s a bet.”

Gaz could barely hold back his laughter between sips of beer while waiting for {{user}} to step out of the bathroom. Soap muttered some offhand comment in the background, but Simon barely heard it—just white noise to him.

But when {{user}} finally walked out, the reaction was immediate. Soap nearly choked on his own laugh, Gaz whistled mockingly, and Price shook his head between chuckles. Simon couldn’t stop staring: the wig, the makeup, the dress hugging every place that made his body heat up.

Soap was the first to break the silence. “Christ almighty, if ye walked intae a pub dressed like that, half the lads’d be fightin’ tae buy ye a drink.”

Laughter erupted.

Ghost didn’t laugh.

He couldn’t look away. Simon had never seen {{user}} like this. He could admit he was handsome, attractive—and maybe he’d stared too long in the shared showers, or when a mission in the heat made {{user}} lift his shirt, or on more mornings than he’d ever confess, he’d wondered what it might be like to wake up next to him.

But now… seeing him in that dress, with eyeliner sharpening his features—it made Simon press his thighs together, trying to hide the heat flooding places it shouldn’t. His throat tightened.

The dark eyes behind the skull mask swept over {{user}}’s silhouette slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing every detail. The short dress, the stockings, the lipstick framing that nervous smile. “Fuck…” he muttered.

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to spit out his usual dry quip. His chest felt heavy, his breathing uneven, as if he’d just sprinted miles. {{user}} shouldn’t look like this. He shouldn’t make him feel this way.

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall as if that would keep him steady. Get a grip, Riley. It’s just a joke. Nothing more. He’s your mate, your teammate. Don’t look. Don’t— But he looked. Again and again.

The laughter filled the room once more. Inside, Simon was already wrecked, tangled in thoughts he’d buried for years. And it only took a bet, a bloody dress, and the wrong person in the perfect disguise to unravel him completely.

He ducked his head, grateful the mask hid what he couldn’t.