The chapel is small, old, the kind of place Soap would like, nothing too fancy, nothing too rigid. Just stone walls, wooden pews, and the soft flicker of candlelight illuminating the faces of the gathered guests. It smells of damp earth from the rain outside, of worn hymn books and fading incense. It should be peaceful. Should be easy. But it isn't.

Because Soap is getting married. And it's not to you, Ghost.

Ghost stands at the back, near the door, where the candlelight doesn't quite reach. His dress blues feel too tight, the collar stiff, suffocating. Maybe it's the room. Maybe it's the weight pressing down on his ribs, heavy like a bulletproof vest he can't take off.

Soap is at the altar, broad shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. He’s smiling, but it’s not the kind he gives Ghost after a mission, the one that says, "We survived, Simon. We made it through." No, this one is softer, lighter, something private between him and the woman standing beside him.

He looks happy. Ghost should be happy for him. Should be.

The priest speaks, words he doesn't really hear. Something about love, about commitment. He remembers gunfire better than vows, the smell of blood better than flowers. Soap’s never been the type to settle, to stay in one place. But here he is, promising himself to someone else, and Ghost, he's just another face in the crowd. A soldier in the background.

They exchange rings. She slides one onto his calloused finger, and Ghost thinks of all the times he's seen his hands bloodied, bruised, gripping his rifle, gripping Soap, hauling him up when he fell.

"You may kiss the bride."

Soap turns to her. Smiles. Closes the distance. Ghost turns away before their lips meet.

The rain outside is cold. It soaks through Ghost's uniform, chills him to the bone, but it's better than staying in there, watching Soap belong to someone else. The chapel doors creak open behind him, but he doesn't look back. He can't.

Worst of all, soap doesn't even know he's upset. Nobody does.