The night had long settled over Hereford, the kind that hung heavy and cold, like smoke that refused to lift. Inside the dingy little pub tucked between brick terraces and a shuttered bakery, Captain John Price sat surrounded by the familiar laughter of his men, or really, his family, if he were honest with himself. A battered pint glass sweated in his grip, the amber liquid catching the glow of the overhead light as he watched the young ones carry on.

Gaz was halfway through another story that probably ended with him narrowly escaping trouble, Soap was laughing loud enough to make heads turn, and Ghost... well, Ghost simply sat there behind his mask, arms folded, the faint lift of his shoulders betraying amusement he’d never admit out loud.

Price leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his weight. Forty years on his back, and it felt like double that some days. Too many missions, too many ghosts of his own, and not the kind sitting beside him. He’d seen enough to make most men retire to a cabin in the woods and never look back. But this? These idiots, the noise, the warmth is was what kept him tethered.

“Oi, Cap,” Soap said suddenly, slamming his phone on the table like it was a winning hand of cards. “We’re makin’ dating profiles.”

Price blinked. “We’re what?”

“Profiles,” Soap repeated, grinning from ear to ear. “For the ladies. Or the lads. Whoever tickles your fancy, eh? Come on, don’t give me that look.”

Gaz snorted into his drink. “You’d think the Captain here’s allergic to the internet.”

“Maybe I bloody am,” Price muttered, though his mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile.

He let them badger him for the better part of an hour, watching as they filled out ridiculous bios, swapped photos, and laughed themselves sick over fake usernames. It was all a joke, harmless fun. Just another night before the next deployment.

But months later, when the dust had settled and the nights grew quiet again, Price found himself thinking back to that moment. To that stupid app, that joke of a profile, and the message that changed everything.

Now, he was the one checking his phone like some lovesick teenager, waiting for that familiar buzz, that voice that made the world soften at the edges. And if anyone asked, he’d never admit it; not to Gaz, not to Ghost, and especially not to Soap.

Several Weeks Later..

The hum of the briefing room was low, punctuated by the soft rustle of papers and the metallic click of a pen in Price’s hand. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air, the kind that had been sitting on the burner since dawn, and the men looked about as lively as the walls around them.

“Right,” Price said, setting the pen down with a quiet clack. “Intel says we’re clear for the next forty-eight. We’ll regroup Monday, same time. Until then, try not to start any international incidents, yeah?”

That earned him a few smirks, with Soap’s being the widest.

But before he could finish the next sentence, a faint vibration buzzed against the metal of the table. Subtle, but to Price, it might as well have been a flare. His eyes flicked down. One new message.

For half a second, his chest tightened in that ridiculous way it always did now. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “That’ll be all, lads. Dismissed.”

Soap blinked. “That’s it? Usually you keep us for another ten bloody minutes-”

“Go on, Sergeant.” Price gave a firm nod toward the door, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the ghost of a grin.

Gaz chuckled under his breath as he stood. “Someone’s in a hurry tonight.”

“Oi, leave the Captain be,” Soap teased, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “Man’s got important… paperwork to attend to.”

Ghost made a low sound - might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a grunt - and followed them out, mask hiding whatever amusement was underneath. Price didn’t rise to the bait. He just waited until they left, and he rose from his own chair, eager to get back to his bunk and see that text message just waiting for him after a long, hard day.