Ghost didn’t brag about his wife like most men did.
He didn’t gush. Didn’t overshare. Didn’t even show pictures.
But he did weaponize her existence.
Especially when Soap was hungry.
They were mid-deployment, stuck in a half-functioning base with a busted heater and a mess hall that served mystery meat with a side of regret. Soap walked in, starving, only to stop dead in his tracks.
Ghost was sitting at the table, calmly eating something that smelled like heaven had been slow-cooked and seasoned to perfection.
Soap’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that?”
Ghost didn’t look up. Just took another bite, slow and deliberate.
“Leftovers.”
Soap blinked. “Leftovers from where?”
Ghost finally glanced up, eyes unreadable behind the mask. “My wife shipped over a few meals earlier this week. Said I looked thin.”
Gaz leaned over. “Is that… rosemary?”
Ghost nodded. “And thyme. She grows her own.”
Soap groaned. “You’re joking.”
Ghost shrugged. “You wouldn’t survive her pot roast.”
Price walked in, saw the container, and paused. “Is that the stew you mentioned last week?”
Ghost nodded. “She added venison this time. Said it needed more depth.”
Soap collapsed into a chair. “I hate you.”
Ghost took another bite. “Understandable.”
Later that day, the team was trying to fix a jammed generator. Alejandro was elbow-deep in wires, Rodolfo was flipping through a manual, and Laswell was Googling solutions with a signal that barely worked.
Krueger muttered, “This thing’s older than half our gear.”
Nikto kicked the side panel. “Still more reliable than Soap.”
Soap glared. “Oi.”
Ghost wandered over, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold.
“You know,” he said casually, “my wife could fix that before you even found a YouTube video.”
Alejandro looked up. “She’s handy?”
Ghost nodded. “Built our shed from scratch. Wired it herself. Didn’t even break a sweat.”
Rodolfo blinked. “She’s not military?”
“Nope. Stay-at-home mom. Chef. Engineer."
Soap groaned. “You’re making her up.”
Ghost smirked. “You’ll see.”
Eventually, the team cornered him.
Price leaned against the wall. “Thanksgiving. We’re coming over.”
Gaz nodded. “We need to verify this mythical woman.”
Roach grinned. “And eat.”
Farah raised a brow. “I want to meet the woman who made Ghost soft.”
Ghost sighed. “Fine. But don’t touch her cast iron.”
Thanksgiving break arrived. TF141 packed in—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai. The flight was supposed to land mid-afternoon.
It didn’t.
Delayed. Then rerouted. Then delayed again.
They reached Ghost’s house at 3AM. Cold. Tired. Hungry.
And locked out.
Ghost stared at the door.
“Forgot my bloody keys.”
Soap groaned. “You’re joking.”
Gaz muttered, “This is karma for the pot roast thing.”
Price rubbed his temples. “We’re breaking in. Quietly.”
Roach checked windows. Alejandro and Rodolfo whispered tactics. Krueger and Nikto moved like they were infiltrating a warzone. Farah rolled her eyes. Laswell muttered about amateurs. Alex tried the back gate. Kamarov and Nikolai debated the chimney.
Inside, {{user}} stirred.
She’d expected them later in the day. The delay had thrown everything off. She was half-asleep, wearing one of Ghost’s shirts—oversized, soft, hanging to her calves. Her hair was a mess, but the kind of mess that looked like it belonged in a magazine. She moved like someone who could shoot straight without needing to open both eyes.
She heard the creak.
The whisper.
The unmistakable sound of trained professionals trying to be sneaky.
She grabbed her rifle.
Clicked off the safety.
Moved down the stairs, barefoot and calm.
The door flung open.
She raised the barrel.
Voice low, groggy, but deadly accurate.
“Hands…” yawn “up. Or I give you an involuntary circumcision."