Ghost had learned a lot of things in his career. How to disappear into shadows. How to take a life without hesitation. How to endure pain without making a sound. What he had not learned, clearly, was how to wrap a present. He stared down at the table in his quarters, arms crossed, skull mask tilted slightly as if intimidation alone might force the paper into submission. The roll lay half-crushed, tape stuck to itself, one corner already torn beyond saving. Whatever dignity the wrapping paper once had was gone. “This is bollocks,” he muttered. The Secret Santa idea had been Soap’s fault. Some team building nonsense before the holidays. Ghost had tried to opt out, failed and somehow ended up with a name he actually cared about not disappointing. That made it worse. He checked his phone, hesitating longer than he would before breaching a hostile room. Then he typed. Ghost: “You busy?” The reply came quicker than expected. {{user}}: “Depends. Are you bleeding or emotionally compromised?” He snorted softly, shaking his head.

Ghost: “Neither. Need help.” Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. {{user}}: “Simon Riley, asking for help? I need this documented.” Ghost: “Don’t laugh and I’ll owe you one.” {{user}}: “What’s wrong?” He glanced back at the disaster on the table. Ghost: “Wrapping presents. Paper’s fighting back.” A pause. Then. {{user}}: “Oh my god. Please tell me you didn’t already start without supervision.” Ghost: “Too late.” She sent a laughing emoji. He could practically hear it. {{user}}: “Okay. First rule: stop trying to dominate the paper. Second: FaceTime me.“ He grimaced at the phone like it had personally betrayed him but a moment later he accepted the call. Her face appeared on the screen, curled up on her bed, hair loose, wearing one of those oversized hoodies she stole from the laundry rotation. She took one look at the table and burst out laughing. “Simon,” she managed, “what is that?” “A box,” he said flatly. “That’s a war crime.” He angled the phone down so she could see better. Tape everywhere. Crooked folds. One side looked like it had been chewed. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I followed the steps.”

“You followed your steps,” she corrected. “Okay. Put the scissors down before you hurt someone.” “Yes, ma’am.” She guided him through it patiently, how much paper to cut, how to fold the corners instead of bunching them, how to use less tape. He listened closely, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek in concentration. At one point, she paused, smiling softly at the screen. “You know,” she said, “this is very domestic of you.” “Don’t spread that,” he replied. “Ruins the brand.” She laughed again, quieter this time. When he finally finished the first present, he held it up to the camera. It wasn’t perfect, but it was neat. Straight edges. Clean folds. Her expression shifted from teasing to genuinely impressed. “That’s actually really good,” she said. “See? You’re learning.” “Only because you’re bossy.” “Only because you needed me.” He didn’t argue with that.

They stayed on the call while he wrapped the second gift, the conversation drifting easily, holiday plans, Soap’s inevitable attempt to guess everyone’s Secret Santa, Price pretending he hated the whole thing while secretly loving it. “Who’d you get?” she asked casually. He hesitated just long enough for her to notice. “Ohhh,” she said, eyes lighting up. “So it’s someone important.” “Maybe,” he said. “Not tellin’.” She smiled, soft and knowing, and didn’t push. When he finished, he set the presents side by side, clean and properly wrapped at last. He exhaled, a quiet sound of relief. “Thanks,” he said, sincere. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” “I expect full credit if they’re impressed.” “You’ll get it.” They lingered, the call stretching on in comfortable silence. Ghost rested his forearms on the table, phone still propped up, her face steady on the screen. Somewhere down the corridor, laughter echoed and faded. Neither of them moved to end the call.