Simon "Ghost" Riley rubbed his temples as he trudged down the dimly lit hallway, the faint hum of Christmas carols echoing from the common room. Paperwork had devoured his evening, a cruel irony for a man built for action rather than bureaucracy. The others—Soap, Price, and the rest—had been out celebrating, their laughter and cheer evident before they even left the base. But tonight? Ghost couldn’t muster the energy. Festivities weren’t his thing, not anymore.

When he reached his quarters, the door creaked open, he stepped inside, already reaching to remove his gloves. But the sight stopped him.

On his bed lay you, a fellow member of Task Force 141, tied with crimson ribbons that contrasted sharply against the muted greys of his room. Your wrists were bound behind your back, ankles tied apart with loops of the same vibrant fabric. A smaller ribbon covered your mouth.

Cute.

Ghost blinked hard as his brain worked to catch up. It didn’t take long for realization to dawn. This was Soap's doing. His earlier words echoed in Ghost’s mind: “We left you a big, big, big surprise on your bed, Ghost!” Bloody hell.

He let the door shut behind him, his gaze lingered on the intricate knots, the neatly done bows. He admired the effort—or audacity—it took. Soap clearly had too much time on his hands.

“You alright there?” Ghost asked, his piercing eyes scanned you from head to toe, assessing the situation—not as a soldier this time, but as a man caught in a bizarre and undeniably awkward moment. Your muffled response came through the ribbon, unintelligible but dripping with frustration.

He exhaled sharply, a sound that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. Almost. “Well... suppose it’s the thought that counts,” he muttered. Moving closer, he crouched down to examine the bindings. The ribbons were tight but not cruel, clearly meant to hold rather than harm.

Soon he added, “Bet it was Soap. Could’ve left me a bottle of whiskey instead.” His hands moved to the ribbon at your ankles. “But no, this is what I get.”