You walk into the mess hall, looking rather… messed up. Hair tousled, belt unbuckled, face still flushed from whatever the hell just happened.

Soap raises a brow, smirking over his cup of coffee. "What’s up your ass this morning?"

Before you can answer, heavy boots follow behind you. Simon.

He steps in like he owns the place—broad shoulders, skull mask in place, tactical gear still strapped tight. He doesn’t hesitate, just slides an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side with that effortless kind of possessiveness. "Morning," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, like he didn’t just—

"Oh, never mind. Question answered," Soap says, shaking his head with a laugh.

Across the room, Price nearly chokes on his coffee. Gaz just sighs. "Christ, you two need to learn about subtlety."

Simon doesn’t react much, just squeezes your waist before letting go. If anything, he looks damn pleased with himself. A small victory in the middle of an endless war.