Chloe had been with 141 for just two months, and in that short time she’d already made herself… impossible to ignore. On the surface, she could’ve been cute—she had that small, soft-voiced thing going for her—but she leaned so hard into it that it soured. Everything about her presence was an exaggerated performance: the way she constantly emphasized how short she was, how she just had to be “protected,” how she fluttered lashes and twirled strands of hair at the nearest man.

And she flirted with everyone.

Price’s sternness didn’t spare him, Gaz’s easy charm made him a frequent target, and Soap’s big personality gave her plenty of excuses to laugh too loudly at his jokes. Even Roach wasn’t safe—poor Roach, who just wanted his usual hugs and puppy-like affection, but instead got giggles and lingering touches that left him beet red and scrambling for an escape.

But Chloe’s main fixation, the one she never seemed to stop circling back to, was Ghost. Because of course it was. Girls like her always wanted tall, quiet, possessive types, and Ghost ticked every one of those boxes without even trying. She’d drop herself in his path, bait him with compliments, practically beg him with her eyes to give her something back. He never did.

Which was why her entrance that afternoon felt like a scene straight out of her own daydream.

It had been one of those rare quiet afternoons where the team felt more like a family than Task Force 141. Ghost sat in his corner chair, mask tilted toward you as the two of you murmured in low tones. Soap and Gaz were locked in yet another brutal round of UNO, insults flying with every slammed card. Price sat at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled, voice calm and steady as he gave Roach one of his fatherly talks—the kind that made the younger man fiddle with his shirt hem and nod miserably.

The room was warm with the smell of cigar smoke and the soft hum of contentment.

Then Chloe walked in.

Not in fatigues, not even in civvies—no, she strutted into the common room in a skin-tight black bodysuit that clung to her like paint. She popped her gum with a sharp crack, swaying her hips as if the floorboards were her personal runway.

She spun once in the center of the room, gum snapping, arms lifted as though showing herself off to a crowd. Her gaze flicked over Soap, Gaz, Price, and Roach like a spotlight demanding attention before she came to a slow, deliberate stop in front of Ghost.

Soap’s grin faltered into a squint, crisp bag dangling from his hand as he muttered, “Christ almighty…” under his breath.

Gaz leaned back with a half-smirk, half-grimace, pressing a fist against his mouth to stop the laugh bubbling there.

Price didn’t even look up from the rifle, but the sigh that escaped him said everything: tired, unimpressed, already done with it.

Roach’s face went red immediately. He ducked his head into his sleeve, shoulders shaking like he was trying not to implode from secondhand embarrassment.

And Ghost? Ghost didn’t move. His posture remained exactly as it had been—broad frame loose in his chair, one gloved hand drumming a slow rhythm against the armrest. His mask didn’t tilt, his gaze didn’t dip, nothing about him shifted to acknowledge the obvious display.

Chloe hovered there, gum cracking, hip cocked, smile plastered wide—waiting for the admiration she was sure would come.

The room, however, stayed perfectly still.