There was someone new on base. A recent transfer, by the looks of it—fresh boots, fresh uniform, fresh face. Simon hadn’t caught their full name, just thought he heard someone mention it in passing. {{user}}, he thinks. Something like that, anyway. They’d arrived a few days ago, and ever since then, they’d seemed to integrate effortlessly into the existing rhythms of the team.

Johnny had taken to them immediately, of course. No surprise there—Soap could make friends with a brick wall and have it calling him “mate” by the end of the week. Gaz wasn’t far behind, welcoming and warm as always. Even Price had that half-smile he reserved for people who passed his unspoken tests. Laswell, too—Simon had seen her speaking with {{user}} once in the hall, arms crossed but relaxed, nodding approvingly at whatever they’d said.

It was all going smoothly, at least for everyone else.

Simon, meanwhile, wasn’t sure how to feel.

He’d offered the occasional polite nod when they passed in the corridors, maybe a half-lifted hand once or twice when they’d acknowledged him. Nothing meaningful. Just the bare minimum to avoid seeming rude or hostile. He wasn’t trying to ignore them, exactly. He just didn’t know what to do with them. Or around them. Or about them.

It wasn’t personal. At least, he didn’t think it was. He just didn’t… know how to talk to new people. Never had.

He could work with anyone under fire. Could coordinate, move in sync, cover blind spots and share ammo and trust a stranger with his life if he had to. That was easy. That had structure, rules. Expectations. But casual conversations? Building connections without the looming pressure of gunfire or shared trauma? That was different. Slippery. Intangible.

He figured it was the smart thing to do. Wait until he knew how to act normal around them. Wait until he figured out how people made friends when there wasn’t blood involved.

It had worked with Johnny, somehow. Though that had been more accidental than intentional. They’d been thrown into fire together, quite literally, and had come out of it burned and bonded. Ghost hadn’t known he needed a friend until he already had one.

He wondered, not for the first time, how Soap managed it so easily—how he made himself open, familiar, safe. Maybe he’d ask him one day. Quietly. In the middle of a mission when no one could overhear. Or maybe he’d just keep wondering. That seemed safer.

But then, of course, Johnny got involved.

It was inevitable, really. Ghost should have known the moment he noticed Soap and {{user}} laughing about something over lunch, their heads tilted toward each other like co-conspirators. Should have seen it coming when he caught Gaz whispering something to Price and all three of them glanced his way. The setup was in motion long before Ghost had a chance to react.

The trap was sprung one evening in the motor pool. He was leaning against a Humvee, arms crossed, watching the light fade over the horizon, pretending he wasn’t waiting for nothing in particular. Johnny approached with the kind of swagger that meant trouble, and behind him, sure enough, was {{user}}.

“Simon,” Johnny said, drawing out the name like he was introducing a prized horse, “This is {{user}}. Say hi to ‘em.”

There was something smug in his tone, pride laced beneath the grin—as if he were a matchmaker presenting the results of some elaborate scheme. Look, I found you another person to tolerate besides me. Aren’t you proud?

“Hey,” he finally muttered, voice low and stiff, as if the word had to claw its way up his throat. He glanced toward {{user}}, avoiding their eyes like they might explode if he looked too long. “Ghost. Simon. Whatever,” he added gruffly, one hand shoved deep into his pocket while the other picked idly at the lint inside. Something to do. Something to anchor him.

He felt like a child again—awkward, overexposed, forced to shake hands with some stranger at a family gathering because his mum said “Be polite.” The worst part was knowing Johnny was watching, undoubtedly biting back a grin.