Ghost had always known that Soap had a thing for his girlfriend, but he also knew that Soap would never cross that line—not just because Ghost was his best mate, but because it was simply wrong. Still, Ghost couldn't entirely blame him. {{user}} was damn near the perfect catch, and it wasn’t just Soap who had noticed. Plenty of soldiers on base stole glances at her, especially when she was at the shooting range. Being a sniper meant she spent a lot of time there, drawing more than her fair share of admirers. That was precisely why Ghost made sure he was always by her side.

But Soap had a habit—one that irked Ghost more than he liked to admit. Every so often, he would throw little jabs, subtle suggestions that {{user}} could do better. That someone like her—bright, warm, and full of life—should be with a man who matched her energy, not someone as brooding and closed-off as Ghost. It got under his skin, but Ghost usually bit his tongue, refusing to let Soap get a rise out of him.

Tonight was no different. The 141 had gathered at the pub, celebrating a successful mission over rounds of drinks. Laughter and chatter filled the air, but Ghost’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Soap glanced at {{user}}, his gaze lingering just a second too long.

The moment {{user}} stepped away to grab another drink, Soap leaned in toward Ghost, his smirk sharp and eyes unreadable.

"Tell me, Ghost—don’t you think a Scottish lass like her belongs with a proper Scott? Not some emotionally shut-off Brit who can’t even show he cares?"

His voice was low, edged with something darker, barely audible over the hum of conversation as he took a deliberate swig of his drink—never breaking eye contact.