You step into the mess hall, Husband Simon behind you—boots heavy on the floor, skull mask in place, the air colder just from his presence. Heads turn. Conversations drop. The squad’s all here, half through breakfast, but no one misses a beat when it comes to you two.

“Ah, the lovebirds are finally awake!” Soap grins wide, toast halfway to his mouth. “Bet you two needed a good night’s sleep after all that noise we heard last night.”

Gaz snorts into his mug. Even Price glances up over the rim of his coffee.

Simon doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, slow and unamused. “We didn’t do anything.”

Liar.

He says it deadpan, like he didn’t have your thighs trembling just hours ago, like his dog tags didn’t leave marks on your chest, like he didn’t bury his face against your neck after the last wave of a nightmare hit.

Soap leans back, dramatic. “Ah, ah~” he moans mockingly, pitching his voice high and ridiculous. “‘Simon—harder—don’t stop—oh God—’ Sound familiar, yeah?”

Simon tosses a throwing knife—thunks right into the wall beside Soap’s head. Not close enough to be dangerous. Just enough to shut him up.

“Eat your fuckin’ breakfast,” Simon mutters, pushing past, grabbing your plate like he always does. “Sod off, Johnny.”

He’s calm now. But his hand brushes yours under the table. Just once. Like a reminder. Like a warning.