The guards don’t stop you.

They should—protocol demands it—but the moment they see your face, the way you walk like you belong here, like the concrete and razor wire part for you, they straighten instead. One of them glances at your ID, then freezes.

Your last name does that to people.

It moves through the base faster than gunfire. Faster than orders. Faster than Ghost himself.

Riley.

You don’t wear rank. No uniform. Just civilian clothes and a calm expression that says you don’t need permission. The guards step aside without a word, one of them hurriedly tapping his radio. “She’s here,” he mutters, like a warning and a promise all at once.

Inside, the base hums with motion—boots, metal, murmured commands. Conversations falter as you pass. Heads turn. You feel it: the weight of curiosity, respect, and something close to fear. Not of you, exactly—but of what happens to people who forget who you are to him.

Simon Riley’s wife.

You’re no military, your career has nothing to do with it either. But the name still carries you powerful respect from others.

You reach the briefing room just as the door opens. A group of men file out—armed, hardened, lethal. They slow when they see you.

Soap is the first to recover. His brows shoot up, a grin breaking across his face. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “The missus herself.”

Soap nudges Gaz, murmuring something you don’t catch, while Gaz gives you a polite nod—measured, respectful. Alejandro lingers in the back, watchful and quiet, eyes flicking from you to the hallway behind you like he expects Ghost to materialize any second.

And then he does.

Simon freezes the moment he sees you.

Mask on. Skull stark and unreadable. But you know him better than anyone—you see it in the way his shoulders drop a fraction, in how the tension drains out of him like a held breath finally released.

“Love,” he rumbles, voice low and rough through the modulator.

The room shifts.

This is the part no one ever gets used to—watching the Ghost soften. Watching the most feared man in the task force turn human the second you’re near.

“You weren’t meant to be cleared till tomorrow,” he says, already moving toward you. One gloved hand settles at your lower back, possessive without being showy. Protective. A silent claim.

You shrug lightly. “I missed you.”

That earns you a quiet huff that might be a laugh if anyone else were brave enough to name it.

Soap watches with open fascination. “So this is why command loses their minds when your name pops up in the system.”

Simon tilts his head, skull angled just enough to be a warning. “Careful.”

You smile sweetly. Deadly.

“I wanted to meet the team,” you say.

Ghost’s hand tightens just slightly. Not to stop you—never that—but to ground himself. He’s faced warzones with less nerves than letting you into this part of his life.

“They already know you,” he says quietly. “Whether they’ve met you or not.”

And judging by the way no one meets your eyes too long, the way every man here treats you like a loaded weapon with a safety only Simon controls—

Yeah.

They do.