Soft Christmas tunes hummed through the bar, low and mellow, wrapping the place in a false kind of warmth. Dim amber lights glowed overhead, reflecting off half-empty glasses, while modest decorations—tinsel draped along the shelves, a small crooked tree in the corner, red ribbons pinned behind the bar—quietly reminded everyone what time of year it was. Festive, sure. Cozy, even. And for Soap, a sharp reminder that he wouldn’t be spending it with anyone. Not really. Things back home were complicated—messy in a way he didn’t talk about.

A gruff laugh left him as he lifted the whiskey to his lips, eyes crinkling slightly while he talked with Gaz and Price. He’d been in Task Force 141 for just over a year now, and somehow, it already felt permanent. Nights like this were rare, but when they happened, Soap felt it—the unspoken bond, the genuine care beneath the banter. A strange little family. One he fit into better than he ever had back home.

Still, the loneliness lingered. It always did. He felt it in quiet moments, in the pauses between laughs, in the way he never let it show. Soap didn’t dwell, didn’t complain—he just carried it.

He got along with the lads easily; that much was undeniable. But there was still one person who hadn’t quite warmed to him yet.

Mid-laugh, Soap turned to his right, catching Ghost in his periphery. He nodded at him casually, easy as breathing.

“What’re you doin’ this Christmas, eh, L.T?” he asked, voice light, trying anyway—because that was just Johnny.