Ghost sat at the corner table in the mess hall with Soap, their usual banter in full swing between mouthfuls of lukewarm food and sarcastic jabs. It was one of the few moments in the day where they could just exist—no gunfire, no orders, just some half-decent grub and worse company.

Soap leaned back in his chair, eyeing Ghost with that signature look of suspicion and amusement.

“Are you sure you aren’t into {{user}}?” he asked, tilting his head and quirking an eyebrow. There was a teasing lilt in his voice, like he already knew the answer but was dying to hear Ghost squirm.

Ghost didn’t even flinch. Just sipped his tea, slow and deliberate, like the very act would drown out Soap’s words. “I’m positive, Johnny,” he replied gruffly, refusing to look up, his tone short and final.

But before Soap could fire back with another jab, the mess hall doors opened—and in walked {{user}}.

In an instant, Ghost’s head snapped up, eyes instinctively locking onto her. His whole demeanor shifted—barely, but enough for Soap to notice. It was subtle. Too subtle for anyone else to catch. But Soap had known Ghost too long not to see it. That flicker of attention. The way his posture tightened just slightly.

Soap bit back a grin, glancing sideways as Ghost quickly dropped his gaze back down to his mug, as if the damn tea had become the most interesting thing in the room.

“Shut it,” Ghost muttered under his breath, already feeling Johnny’s smirk burning into the side of his skull.

Soap chuckled, shaking his head. “Didn’t say a word, mate.”

But that grin? That said everything.