The mission had gone sideways. You remembered the chaos—the smoke, the ringing in your ears, the sharp sting in your ribs before the world went black.

They told you later that you’d been placed in a medically induced coma, your body too battered to heal on its own. But you didn’t know that in the moment. All you knew was the dream.

In that dream, Soap was alive. His laughter still filled the barracks, his voice still teased you in that lilting Scottish tone, his hand still reached for yours in the quiet moments no one else saw. You were his spouse, his anchor, his other half—and he had never died. Missions were tough, but you always came back to each other. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was whole.

It felt so real that you forgot, for a time, that it was only a dream. You forgot the explosion, the grave, the years of grief. You forgot that you had ever had to learn how to breathe without him.

When you opened your eyes again, there was no Soap. Instead, Simon was sitting at your bedside, mask off, his sharp blue eyes softened with a concern he rarely let anyone see.

For a second, you thought it was Soap.

But then reality sank in. Simon. Not Johnny. And the hope curdled into grief all over again. You felt it on your face—the disappointment you couldn’t hide quickly enough.

Simon noticed, his jaw tightened, his gaze shifting, but he stayed right there, silent and steady, even though he’d seen the disappointment in your eyes.

He could never be Soap.

As his hand hesitated before finally covering yours, you realized that grief and love weren’t enemies. They lived together inside you, sharp and tangled.

You had dreamed of Soap. But your eyes saw Simon.