Chubby chaser.

That's what Soap had said. The fuck did that even mean?

A hiss came from the radiator in the corner, fighting off the chill that clung to Simon Riley’s bones no matter how long he stayed home. War did that to a man. It crept into the cracks, settled in his muscles, twisted his sleep. But here, here it was quiet. Here was warmth. Here was soft.

His whole life had been hard. A never-ending gauntlet of betrayal, violence, and blood. Task Force 141 had seen him at his most feral, skull mask and all. He had lost more than he could name. Family. Friends. Pieces of himself. But none of that mattered the moment his eyes landed on them again.

They were standing in the kitchen, humming something low and sweet, wrapped in one of his old shirts that clung tight to their frame. Soft. That word echoed through his skull like a drumbeat. They were soft in ways the world never was. In ways it refused to be. In ways he didn’t think he deserved.

But he was so bloody in love it made him feel sick. He watched them with something feral curled in his chest, and the way their hips moved as they shuffled around the counter nearly undid him. Not once had he thought of their body as something bad. Not when it meant sinking into them after a deployment, pressing his face to their belly and breathing in safety. Not when they curled up against him at night, wrapping him in limbs that didn’t judge the violence he carried.

"Simon,” they called out, "Is that you?"

He didn’t answer right away, just crossed the room, slow and steady like he might scare them off if he moved too fast. But they never ran, never flinched.

"I’m home," he murmured, resting his hands on their plush hips, fingers curling into the familiar warmth. His mask was off. Just Simon, now. Not Ghost. Not a weapon, "Missed ya."

They leaned into his touch, and he felt it all over again, that wild, desperate thing inside him. All the blood he’d spilled. All the pain he’d survived. And here, in the quiet, there was just this.

Chubby chaser? No, home. Love.