You had just recently joined the 141, only having been in their ranks as a Sergeant for a few months now. You had been integrated into one of their traditions… takeout night.

Every Friday, when the whole team was available and on base, one lucky person had to go off base and pick up dinner for the team, and everyone would eat together in the 141 common room - instead of the mess hall.

It rotated every time, who had to go out, and this week it was Ghost. Usually, the person going out would pick where everyone is eating from and then you’d make your request. This time, you weren’t able to get to Ghost before he left - too busy yelling at some rookie who almost blew up the whole squad with a grenade.

By time you were done, collapsed on the couch, still ticked off and your throat slightly sore from screaming. You were so frustrated with the rookie you nearly wanted to cry, and you swore to god if Ghost came back with dinner and got you something you didn’t like-

“Here.” Ghosts gruff voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and there’s a sudden weight in your lap, warm and hefty. Dinner. You look into the bag, your eyes practically lighting up when you see your favourite food sitting there, warm and fragrant.

All your previous frustrations melt away at this action that’s seemingly so simple - but it really made your day. The tearful feeling is no longer from frustration, but gratitude and fondness for the cold Lieutenant that seems to slowly be warming up to you.