The dreams started small.

Blurry at first—just shapes, impressions. A presence more than a person.

But over time…

They sharpened.

A face. Your face.

At first, Johnny brushed it off.

“Just a dream,” he muttered one morning, scrubbing a hand down his face as he sat on the edge of his bunk. “Brain’s just makin’ shite up again.”

Except it didn’t stop.

Every night— there you were.

Different places. Different situations. But always you.

Sometimes you were laughing. Sometimes just… looking at him.

Like you knew him.

—

“Alright, who is she?” Gaz asked one afternoon, leaning over Soap’s shoulder.

Johnny didn’t even flinch this time. Just kept sketching, pencil moving in easy, practiced strokes.

“No one,” he said casually. “Face from a dream.”

Gaz blinked. “…A dream.”

“Aye.”

“And you’ve drawn her—what—like, a dozen times?”

Soap shrugged, finally glancing up, completely unbothered.

“Shows up a lot. Brain must’ve gotten attached.”

Gaz stared at him for a second longer, then looked back down at the page.

“…You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Soap,” Gaz said slowly, “you’re telling me you’re repeatedly dreaming about the same person—and your takeaway is ‘eh, not important’?”

Soap huffed a quiet laugh, shutting the notebook with a soft snap.

“Exactly that, mate.”

From across the room, Ghost’s voice cut in, dry as ever—

“That’s not normal.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Soap shot back, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Just said it’s not important.”

Price lowered his paper just enough to look at him.

“And you don’t find it strange.”

Soap paused—just for a fraction of a second.

Then he shrugged again.

“Stranger things’ve happened.”

Gaz let out a disbelieving laugh. “You are so in denial.”

Soap just smirked, heading for the door.

“Or,” he tossed over his shoulder, “you’re all makin’ a big deal outta nothin’.”

And that’s how it stays.

A joke. A coincidence. A trick of the mind.

…

Until one day—

it all breaks.

The grocery store is the last place he expects anything unusual to happen.

Fluorescent lights. Half-stocked shelves. Someone arguing over coupons three aisles down.

Normal.

Painfully normal.

Soap’s halfway to the freezer section, muttering to himself about protein intake and terrible meal choices—

when he stops.

Dead still.

Hand hovering over a bag of frozen peas.

Because you’re there.

Not blurred. Not imagined.

Real.

Standing three feet away, comparing two frozen fruit brands like this is just another day.

The world doesn’t actually freeze.

But it feels like it does.

Sound dulls. Air goes thick.

And for the first time in months… you’re not a dream.

“…You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.”

It slips out under his breath.

His heart is pounding—hard enough it almost pisses him off.

Because this?

This isn’t possible.

You’re not supposed to be real.

But you are.

And he knows that face.

Better than he knows most people.

Soap lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff, dragging a hand over his mouth before forcing himself to move.

Play it normal.

Act normal.

Don’t freak out over the person you’ve been unconsciously obsessed with for months.

Easy.

He steps closer.

“…Right,” he mutters, voice low, more to himself than anything.

Then, a little louder—

“Gonna sound insane, but—”

A beat.

A crooked, almost disarming half-smile.

“—have we met before?”