The mess hall is loud with the usual banter—Soap and Gaz arguing over football, Price nursing his tea with a weary shake of his head. The scent of overcooked rations and burnt coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of gun oil and sweat. Just another day in Task Force 141.

And then there’s him.

Simon Riley, standing behind you like a damn shadow, broad and immovable. The weight of his arm suddenly wraps around your waist, firm, possessive. Not subtle, not even trying to be.

The room pauses. Conversations don’t quite stop, but everyone sure as hell notices. Because everyone knows—Ghost wants you. Badly.

You whirl around and smack him.

It’s instinct, training, annoyance. Your palm cracks against his cheek, and he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly, those light brown eyes gleaming behind the skull mask.

Then, that voice—dry, deadpan, dripping amusement. “I am about 50% more into you now.”

Soap chokes on his drink. Gaz mutters something about not wanting to be here for this. Price just exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.

And Ghost? He doesn’t let go.