Every second, every hour, every day was a tally marked against the silence. They called it 'Radio Silence'—a professional courtesy that was supposed to mean no news was good news. To you, it just felt like holding your breath for weeks at a time.

​When they finally returned, the house changed. They brought the world back with them—boots caked in mountain mud, the scent of foreign sand clinging to the weave of their uniforms. Seeing them walk through the door was the only time you felt your lungs truly expand.​But the relief always had a shelf life.​It started at the table, while the steam was still rising off the dinner you’d prepared. They’d lean in, shoulders brushing, their heads bent together over the salt and pepper shakers as if plotting a route. A soft chuckle from Soap; a rare, knowing quirk of Ghost’s mask. They traded inside jokes that had no space for you, shorthand stories born in foxholes and Humvees. You sat there, fork in hand, a civilian watching two ghosts haunt their own dinner table.

​You’d offer a tight smile, the kind that didn't reach your eyes, and push a pea around your plate. You weren't jealous of the mission; you were jealous of the version of them that lived in the dirt—the version you weren't allowed to know.

Tonight, the clinking of silverware was the only thing anchoring you to the room as Soap leaned forward, his eyes bright with a lingering shot of adrenaline.

​"Ghost, tell me you saw that amateur hour at the secondary objective," Soap said, gesturing with a piece of bread. "Price had us holding the HLZ for twenty mikes because the Kilo-Six couldn't find the exfil corridor."

​Ghost didn't look up from his plate, but the corner of his eye crinkled—the only sign of a smirk beneath the fabric. "I saw it. Johnny, you were lucky that CAS came in when it did. The ROEs were a mess the moment the HVI went dark."

​"A mess? It was a total FUBAR," Soap laughed, shaking his head. "One minute we’re in a low-vis creep, the next we’re dealing with a hot extraction and a hangfire on the heavy ordnance. I thought for sure we’d be RTB in bags this time."

​Ghost grunted, finally glancing at Soap. "If you hadn't fumbled the comms-check, we wouldn't have been 'black' on ammunition before the first breach."

​They shared a look—a sharp, private moment of shared survival—before Soap turned to you, finally remembering you were there.

​"Anyway," Soap said, his voice softening into a 'civilian' tone that felt like a pity prize. "The weather was rubbish. How was your day, love?"