Ghost didn’t date. Not because he couldn’t, or because he had some deep-seated hatred for the idea. He just didn’t see the point. Feelings made things messy. Attachments made things dangerous. And small talk? Torture. So when Soap started bugging him—really bugging him—about going on a date with some girl he knew, Ghost shut it down fast.

“I’m serious,” Soap said, grinning from behind his coffee mug. “She’s not some Instagram-addicted lunatic, alright? She’s solid. Smart. Knows her way around a sat feed.” Ghost looked up slowly from where he was assembling a sidearm. “Did I ask for a lecture on comms personnel?” Soap ignored the sarcasm. “Just give her a chance. Her name’s {{user}}. Works with Laswell. Not green, not clingy. She reads mission briefs for fun, Ghost.” he insisted. “Sounds thrilling,” Ghost deadpanned. “She’s funny. Sharp. Doesn’t spook easy.”

“I’m not looking to be anyone’s charity project.”

“Jesus,” Soap groaned. “It’s just dinner. No one’s asking you to hand over your bloody soul.”

“I like to eat alone.”

“Well this time, you’ll be eating across from someone and not staring at your barracks wall.” Ghost narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to forget you said that.” Soap leaned in, dropping his voice like he was sharing a classified op. “Come on, mate. Just one date. Worst case, it’s awkward and you get a story out of it. Best case… you actually enjoy it.” Ghost scoffed. “Highly unlikely.” Soap tilted his head. “What if she’s not what you expect?”

“I always expect disappointment.”

And yet—despite every bone in his body telling him this was a bad idea—he found himself accepting the offer. Now he was sitting in a corner booth of some cozy restaurant with exposed brick walls and dim lighting. Candle on the table. Wine glasses he wasn’t touching. A menu he hadn’t read. The server had already come by twice.

And {{user}}? Still wasn’t here. 15 minutes late. Ghost glanced at the door, jaw tightening. He shouldn’t have come. He didn’t belong here—out in the open, vulnerable, waiting. That wasn’t him. He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over Soap’s name, ready to send a short and satisfying “never again.”

Then the door banged open, and a woman rushed in—hair pulled back hastily, coat half-buttoned, phone in her hand. She spotted him, exhaled, and made a beeline for the table. “Simon?” she asked, breathless. He nodded once. “I’m so sorry,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him. “There was this absolute disaster on the motorway—just complete gridlock. Then a detour, and of course my charger’s sitting at home on the counter like an idiot.”

Ghost studied her in silence for a long moment. No heavy makeup. No obvious nerves. She looked like she’d just fought traffic with the same stubborn energy Soap used to charge into gunfire. She offered a short, awkward laugh, then folded her hands together on the table. “I almost turned around and gave up, honestly.”