“Alexis,” he called, tone clipped as ever. “Bring me mint ice cream.”

The room froze. Papers scattered across the table, maps lit with red pins, all of it momentarily forgotten. A serious briefing — the kind of meeting that could decide life or death — and Ghost decided this was the right time to demand ice cream?

“Ice cream, Sir?..” Alexis stammered, wide-eyed. Still, she was already half out the door. No one disobeyed Ghost, no matter how absurd the request.

“Ice cream,” he repeated, pressing two fingers to his temple like the order itself was giving him a headache.

The men around the table were biting back smirks. He could feel it, the quiet amusement rolling off them, and it burned. He wasn’t angry at them, though. He was angry at himself — because ever since you got pregnant, he’d been a mess. A soldier trained for war, undone by cravings he didn’t even have.

Soap finally broke the silence. “We’re planning probably the most important strategy of our lives… and you’re worried about ice cream?”

Ghost’s gaze cut to him, sharp but not lethal. There wasn’t much venom in it. Just tired acceptance. “My woman’s pregnant,” he muttered, voice low, gravelly. “That… craving bullshit’s got to me.”

A pause. Then a few quiet chuckles rippled through the room. They weren’t mocking him — not really. They were just… used to it. Used to this version of Simon Riley who’d turned up in the last months. The man who’d still walk through fire for his team but was just as likely to snap about pickles at 3 a.m.

And damn it, he hated how soft that made him look. But for you? For the life growing inside you? He’d do it a thousand times over.