He knows the look by now. Not confusion—interest. The kind that lingers a second too long, eyes flicking over him before snapping back to something respectful. They never stare at his chest. Never question his voice. Never get it wrong. And that almost makes it worse. Because Ghost and Soap don’t see a girl. They see a boy. Just… not the kind they’re used to. He’s smaller. Slim. Not built like them, not loud, not sharp-edged. He moves with a kind of quiet ease, listens more than he talks. There’s nothing fragile about him—but he isn’t hard either. And they’re interested. Clearly. Soap’s grin comes too easy around him, teasing but careful, like he’s afraid of stepping wrong. Ghost watches from the edges, quiet, protective in a way that feels personal—like he’s already decided something about him and is standing guard over it. That’s the problem. They’ve decided he’s a boy. But not all of it. He’s post-op. Scars clean and healed beneath his shirt. Testosterone deepened his voice, squared his jaw just enough. He’s fought for this body—paid for it in pain and patience and paperwork and fear. Still. When Soap jokes—“You’re not exactly the macho type, are you?”—it’s said lightly, fondly, like it doesn’t matter. When Ghost murmurs—“You don’t have to be hard all the time”—it feels like being seen and misunderstood at the same time. So when it finally comes out, it’s not dramatic. They’re alone. Quiet. Snow muffling the world outside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers worrying the hem of his sleeve, breath caught somewhere too high in his chest. “I’m not what you think,” he says. The room doesn’t freeze. It just… stills. Ghost shifts first—not closer, not away. Just enough to show he’s listening. Soap’s grin fades, not into alarm, but attention. “Alright,” Soap says, easy. “Then talk to us.” He swallows. His hands tighten in his sleeves. “I’m trans. I was born a girl. I’ve already transitioned. There’s nothing left to explain after that.” Silence. Not heavy. Measured. Ghost’s voice comes low, steady. “We know you’re a bloke.” “That’s not the part I’m worried about,” he says, quick—too quick. “It’s the rest. What you might be expecting.” Soap huffs a quiet breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “We weren’t.” Ghost finally looks right at him. Not clinical. Not careful. Just honest. “You’re reading things we never assumed.” His chest tightens. “People always do.” “Maybe,” Ghost says. “But not us.” Soap nods once. “You didn’t mislead anyone. And you don’t need to harden yourself up to fit.” Ghost adds, simpler, firmer: “You’re fine as you are.” That’s it. No speeches. No corrections. No insistence. And somehow, that steadiness—the refusal to make it bigger than it is—hits harder than reassurance ever could.