Most people thought {{user}} was just private.

She was sharp, efficient, tough — the kind of soldier who never complained, never hesitated, never got close enough for anyone to see the cracks. That was how she liked it. That was how she survived. She joined the military at nineteen, fresh out of a town that spat on anything different. Her first unit had been a small, tight-knit group — mostly men, mostly cocky, mostly the kind of guys who called women “sweetheart” with a smirk that made her want to break their noses.

They didn’t like her much. Not at first. She was too serious, too direct, too good at her job. And when they found out — when she trusted one of them enough to say she liked women — the tide turned fast. She heard the whispers behind her back.

Dykes don’t belong in the barracks. No wonder she doesn’t smile — probably hates men. Bet she’s staring in the showers.

Command didn’t care. She filed a complaint once. It disappeared. Her trust went with it. So she learned. Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut. Laugh when they want you to. Never give them more than what they already assume. By the time she made Task Force 141, {{user}} had walls so high no one even bothered to look over them.

Except for Ghost.

He didn’t climb them, didn’t ask for a key — he just sat on the other side, unbothered by the silence, waiting. Not in a pushy way. Just in the way someone does when they understand isolation isn’t always a choice. Their friendship grew in the spaces between missions — in half-smiles passed between cover fire, in tired nods after grueling debriefs, in shared jokes spoken low and dry, meant only for each other. Ghost never asked more of her than she gave. Never probed. Never treated her like a mystery to solve.

But he noticed things.

He noticed how she never joined in on locker room talk. Not out of shyness — just quiet detachment, practiced indifference. He noticed how she tensed when the new recruits flirted, when the others nudged her with questions about “types” and “what she was into.” He noticed how she dodged the topic every single time, like it burned. He noticed the way she looked at people when she thought no one was watching — always guarded, always brief. But once or twice, when Davies walked past, something in her expression softened. Just a flicker. Just long enough for him to file it away. Ghost had suspicions. But he never said anything.

Until she did.

It was late. Most of the team had long since crashed. The only light came from a single desk lamp in the corner of the briefing room, casting a low, gold glow. {{user}} sat on the floor, back against the wall, boots unlaced, half a protein bar forgotten in her hand. Ghost sat across from her, mask pushed up just enough to drink his tea. He watched her over the rim of the cup, saying nothing — like always.

She swallowed, then said it. “I’m gay.” She didn’t look at him when she said it. Didn’t need to. The words hung there, no drama, no buildup — just truth. Ghost froze for the barest moment, just long enough for {{user}} to catch it. His eyes flicked up from his tea, sharp and steady, but something behind them shifted—like he was recalibrating, taking it in. Then he leaned back against the wall with a slow exhale, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Huh.” {{user}} raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Didn’t see that coming,” he said, voice low, half-joking but honest. She laughed softly. “Neither did I.” He met her eyes then, more openly. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Didn’t know if I should.”

He shook his head. “Nah. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. But I’m glad you did.” She let out a breath, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Most people act like it’s some big secret. Or like I’m supposed to change.”

“Not me,” he said firmly. “Doesn’t change how I see you.” They settled back into a comfortable silence, the kind that felt lighter now - like a secret shared but not burdened. “So? Who’s the lucky lady?” She nudged him with her boot. “Watch it, Ghost.” He laughed quietly.