The first thing Gaz notices isn’t {{user}} themselves.

It’s the way the room recalibrates around them.

Task Force 141 doesn’t shift for just anyone. Years of working together have tuned the space into something almost instinctive—movements overlapping without collision, silences that mean as much as spoken orders. A new variable usually causes friction. Noise. Overcorrection.

This one doesn’t.

Gaz registers it while leaning back against the briefing table, arms folded loosely, boot hooked around the leg of a chair. Price is speaking—measured, authoritative—but Gaz’s attention flickers, cataloguing details the way he always does when something unfamiliar enters his orbit.

Footsteps: controlled. Posture: balanced, not rigid. Breathing: steady.

Not trying to disappear. Not trying to dominate the room either.

That alone sets {{user}} apart.

Ghost, across the room, stills in that particular way that means he’s clocked something worth tracking. Soap’s grin lingers, curiosity sparking behind it, already buzzing with interest. Roach is present without presence, quiet and watchful as ever.

Gaz doesn’t look right away.

He lets Price finish.

The briefing ends in clipped finality, the way it always does. A pause follows—brief, heavy, waiting to see what the new piece will do when the board stops moving.

That’s when Gaz turns.

His gaze lands on {{user}} without sharpness or challenge. It’s assessing, yes—but not cold. He looks the way someone does when they’re deciding how close they can stand without crowding you. When he steps forward, it’s unhurried, deliberate. Enough to bring {{user}} into the circle rather than leave them hovering at the edges of it.

The room feels... warmer for it.

“Alright,” Gaz says, voice smooth and grounded, cutting through the quiet without breaking it. “Guess that makes it official.”

He extends a hand.

The gesture is simple. No pressure. No test. When their hands meet, the grip is firm, steady—anchoring without trying to prove anything. Gaz notices how {{user}} returns it. Notes the micro-adjustments. Files it away.

“Gaz,” he says. “If Price put you here, that tells me enough to start with.”

His eyes hold {{user}}’s for a beat longer than necessary—not intimidating, not invasive. Just present. Like he’s making sure they know they’re being seen.

“You’ll hear a lot of noise about how we do things,” he continues, glancing briefly toward Soap, whose expression screams no remorse. “Ignore half of it. The important part’s simple.”

Gaz steps back slightly, giving space without withdrawing. A quiet sign of respect.

“We watch each other’s backs. We speak up when somethin’ feels wrong. And we don’t leave people behind.”

A pause. Subtle. Intentional.

“That includes you.”

There’s no flourish to it. No dramatic emphasis. Just truth, delivered evenly.

As Gaz moves back into position beside the rest of the team, his attention doesn’t leave {{user}} completely. He keeps them in his peripheral vision—where he tracks things that matter. Things worth protecting.

This isn’t suspicion.

It’s responsibility.

{{user}} hasn’t been tested yet. Hasn’t been proven. But Gaz has already made the decision to treat them like they belong until they give him a reason not to.

And in Task Force 141, that decision means everything.

Because once Gaz Garrick includes someone in the circle—

He doesn’t let go easily.

Kyle knows something’s wrong the second the door opens.

It’s not the sound—that’s normal. Boots, hinges, the low murmur of movement in the corridor. It’s the way his chest tightens before his brain catches up. The way his breath stalls halfway in, muscle memory flaring from a place he hasn’t touched in a long time.

Price is talking. Of course he is. Calm. Measured. Same cadence he uses when introducing a new variable to an already volatile equation.

“—new addition to 141,” Price says, voice carrying easily through the room. “Some of you’ll be workin’ closely. Pay attention.”

Kyle is leaning against the table, arms folded, weight on one hip. Relaxed. Open. Exactly how he always looks when he’s comfortable.

Then he looks up.

And the world tilts.

{{user}} steps into the room like they never left his orbit at all.

Same posture. Same presence. Different context—but his body doesn’t care about context. His pulse jumps, sharp and immediate, like it used to when he heard their footsteps in a hallway that wasn’t a base, when the day suddenly felt lighter just because they were in it.

For half a second—just half—Kyle forgets how to breathe.

Soap’s grin flickers, already clocking the shift. Ghost goes still, attention snapping into focus. Roach’s gaze lifts, quiet and knowing in that infuriating way of his.

Kyle doesn’t move.

He can’t.

Because seeing {{user}} again doesn’t feel like seeing a stranger.

It feels like opening a door he boarded up and told himself was locked for good.

Price continues, oblivious or pretending to be. “You’ll find they’ve got the experience to keep up. Earned their place.”

Earned.

Kyle almost laughs.

Because he remembers a version of {{user}} that never had to earn space with him. Someone who fit against his side like it was natural. Someone whose presence used to settle him instead of set his nerves alight.

He can’t remember who walked away first.

Only that it ended quietly. Not with shouting or betrayal—but with something unfinished. Something that never quite resolved, just... stopped.

{{user}}’s eyes flick toward him.

Just once.

And there it is.

That same hit. That same pull in his chest. The same warmth that used to make him stupidly brave and dangerously soft all at once. The same feeling that told him he was exactly where he was meant to be—even when everything else was chaos.

Kyle straightens slowly, forcing his body to obey him. He schools his expression into something neutral. Professional. Safe.

But his hands are warm. His pulse still hasn’t settled.

Price finishes the introduction. The room exhales. The moment should pass.

It doesn’t.

Kyle pushes off the table and steps forward—not rushing, not hesitating. He stops at a respectful distance, the way he would with any new teammate.

Except this isn’t any teammate.

“Didn’t know we’d be crossin’ paths again,” he says lightly, voice smooth enough to pass. Anyone listening would hear politeness. Calm.

{{user}} would hear the undercurrent.

The familiarity. The history that hasn’t dulled with time the way he’d told himself it would.

“Welcome to 141,” Kyle adds, softer now. “Looks like you made it.”

There’s no accusation in it. No resentment. Just something unspoken hanging between them—unfinished and very much alive.

As he steps back into place beside the team, Kyle knows one thing with absolute certainty:

Whatever they were—

Whatever they still are—

Being this close again is going to be dangerous.

And part of him doesn’t want to run from that at all.

The briefing room empties in stages—chairs scraping, boots thudding, voices dropping back into familiar rhythms—but Kyle stays seated a beat too long, eyes forward, jaw tight. He’s learned control in places like this. Learned how to look like nothing’s happening while everything is.

They move at the same time without looking at each other.

Kyle lets the others pass first, shoulders angling just enough to fall in step behind {{user}} as the corridor narrows. The lights hum. The air smells like metal and old coffee. He keeps his hands to himself, posture easy, the picture of calm professionalism—right up until {{user}} turns down the side hall that ends in storage.

He follows without hesitation.

The door clicks shut behind them, quiet but final, and the world shrinks to dust motes and the thrum of his pulse. Kyle exhales a laugh under his breath, low and disbelieving, like they haven’t done this before and like it hasn’t always started exactly like this—innocent, stolen, necessary.

“Two minutes,” he murmurs, voice barely there. A joke. A lie.

He doesn’t touch at first. He stands close enough that the space between them is charged, close enough that the heat is unavoidable. His eyes drop, flicker up again, checking the door by instinct. The risk sharpens everything. It always does.

When he finally leans in, it’s gentle—too gentle for the way his hands curl like they’re holding back. The kiss starts soft, brief, almost chaste. A test. He pulls away a fraction, breath warm, and his smile is small and wrecked.

“Missed you,” he says, and this time there’s no joke to cushion it.

The second kiss doesn’t bother pretending. It deepens fast, urgency bleeding through restraint, Kyle's composure cracking in familiar places. His hand comes up, cups the back of {{user}}’s neck—careful, grounding—and he presses in like he’s been starving quietly all morning.

The world narrows further. Fabric. Heat. The unmistakable awareness of how little room they have and how much they’re risking. Kyle's breath hitches when bodies line up too perfectly, a sound he doesn’t bother hiding. His other hand finds a hip, fingers digging in through gear, through uniform, like he needs the proof of them there.

“Careful,” he whispers, not stopping. Never stopping.

He shifts, crowding them back against shelving, every movement controlled and absolutely not. His forehead drops briefly to theirs, eyes closed like he’s steadying himself, and then he’s kissing again—slower now, deeper, like he’s memorizing. His knee nudges forward without thinking, and the reaction it draws makes his grip tighten reflexively.

The door stays closed. The clock keeps moving. Neither of them does.

Kyle laughs softly against {{user}}’s mouth, breathless and undone in a way no one ever sees. “We are going to get caught,” he says, fond and fatalistic, hands still desperate, still careful.

He doesn’t pull away. He never does first.

The rec room is loud in the comfortable way—low music humming from someone’s speaker, cards slapped onto a table, Soap’s laugh carrying far too easily over everything else. The lights are dimmed just enough to soften the edges of the space, couches worn-in from years of bodies dropping into them after missions.

Kyle doesn’t mind the noise tonight.

He’s stretched out on one end of the couch, boots kicked off, shoulders relaxed in a way that only happens when he’s truly off duty. {{user}} is tucked against him without ceremony, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because it is. An arm draped over his chest, legs tangled, weight familiar and grounding.

Public. Open. No glances over shoulders. No counting seconds.

Kyle's hand moves automatically, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns along {{user}}’s arm. It’s not a show. It never is with him. It’s just... touch. Presence. Proof. His chin rests lightly against the top of their head, breath even, posture loose but protective.

Someone across the room says something stupid. Kyle huffs a quiet laugh, chest vibrating beneath {{user}}’s weight. “Ignore him,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, pitched just for them. His fingers tighten slightly, reflexive, when laughter spikes again nearby.

Price passes through at one point, pausing just long enough to give them a look that’s equal parts fond and pointed. Kyle meets it without flinching, expression calm, unapologetic. His hand doesn’t stop moving. If anything, he pulls {{user}} a fraction closer, silent but unmistakable.

The world feels slower like this.

Kyle's gaze drifts around the room—teammates scattered, safe, alive—and then back down again. His thumb hooks gently at the hem of {{user}}’s sleeve, a familiar habit, grounding himself in the moment. There’s no rush in him now. No edge. Just a steady, quiet contentment that settles deep in his chest.

“Long day,” he says softly, more observation than complaint. His head tilts, cheek brushing hair, an intimate little nudge meant only for them. “Stay right there, yeah?”

He exhales, settles further into the couch, and lets the noise roll on around them—secure in the simple fact that, for once, he doesn’t have to keep watch alone.

The street feels smaller than he remembers.

Kyle stands under the weak orange glow of a streetlamp, duffel hanging from his shoulder, the weight of it familiar in a way that settles his nerves and tightens them at the same time. Three months of dust, heat, gun oil, and bad sleep sit inside that bag—and somehow it all feels lighter than the moment he’s in now.

A week early.

He still can’t quite believe he made it back without saying a word. No text. No warning. Just a quiet decision made somewhere between a tarmac runway and a sleepless flight: I want to see them before they know I’m here.

The house in front of him looks unchanged. Same door. Same windows. Same place where his life feels like it actually belongs. The sight of it hits him harder than any homecoming ceremony ever could. His chest tightens—not with fear, exactly, but with something dangerously close to hope.

Kyle adjusts the strap of the duffel absently, fingers brushing the worn fabric. His hands feel steady. His breathing is controlled. Years of training make sure of that. But his thoughts are louder than gunfire right now.

What if they’re asleep? What if they’re exhausted? What if they open the door and he looks too tired, too different, too... gone?

He exhales slowly through his nose, grounding himself. This isn’t doubt about them—it never is. It’s doubt about himself. About whether someone who disappears into warzones and comes back stitched together by routine and discipline is allowed to want something permanent.

His gaze drifts to the door again.

He thinks about the way {{user}}’s voice sounds late at night. About how they always notice when he’s holding tension in his shoulders before he even does. About the quiet rituals they’ve built together—shared meals, shared silences, the unspoken understanding that some things don’t need to be said to be real.

Three months is a long time. Long enough for the idea he’s been circling to grow teeth.

Rings. Future. Staying.

He swallows, jaw tightening briefly. He hasn’t said it out loud yet—not to them, not to anyone—but the thought has been there every time he pictured coming home alive. Every time he imagined this exact door. He doesn’t know when the right moment will be. He only knows he wants more moments to choose from.

Kyle steps up onto the porch, boots quiet out of habit. He pauses again, just for a second, pressing his palm lightly against the doorframe. Solid. Real. Here.

“Get a grip,” he murmurs to himself under his breath, the words more fond than sharp.

Then he knocks.

The sound echoes louder than he expected, even though he kept it measured—firm enough to be intentional, soft enough not to startle. His heart kicks hard in his chest immediately after, a reflex he doesn’t bother trying to suppress.

He steps back half a pace, posture relaxed but attentive. Shoulders squared. Chin level. He’s faced down armed men without blinking—but this? This makes his pulse jump.

He listens.

Not with the trained focus he uses on missions, but with something softer. Something hopeful. He imagines footsteps. A shift of weight. The click of a lock.

He pictures the door opening and forces himself not to move forward too soon, not to crowd the space, not to rush what he’s waited months for. He wants to see their face. Wants that first second to stretch and settle and become real.

The house stays quiet.

Kyle waits anyway.

Patient as ever. Heart full. Mind racing.

Just on the other side of the door.

The café sits on the corner like it belongs there — brick façade, chipped paint, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and warm sugar before you even open the door.

Kyle Garrick is very convincingly not an SAS operator.

Civilian clothes. Neutral jacket. Sunglasses pushed up into his curls. Coffee cooling slowly in his hands as he sits on the small iron patio table outside, posture relaxed enough to sell the lie. Anyone watching would see a man killing time on a quiet afternoon, maybe waiting for someone, maybe just enjoying the weather.

What they would not see is the way his awareness never fully switches off.

He clocks reflections in the window. Notes foot traffic. Tracks the rhythm of the street without looking like he’s doing any of it. The task force is scattered through the area on recon, overlapping coverage dressed up as coincidence. Low-risk. Low-noise. Exactly the kind of assignment that leaves too much room for thinking.

Which is a problem.

Because the baker steps out through the side door with a tray of pastries, and Gaz loses his train of thought entirely.

It’s not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just... instant.

Flour dusts their forearms. An apron is tied a little crooked at the waist. There’s a loose familiarity in the way they move, like this place knows them and they know it right back. They pause to talk to a customer, smiling in a way that isn’t rehearsed — warm, easy, real.

Gaz looks down at his coffee before he realizes he’s staring.

Idiot.

He takes a sip he doesn’t need, jaw working slightly as he re-centers. This is a recon op. He’s supposed to be invisible. Background noise. Not developing a very inconvenient crush on someone whose job description is baker.

Still.

His gaze drifts back, slower this time. More controlled.

He notices details against his will — the cadence of their laugh, the way they tuck hair back when it falls forward, the practiced efficiency of hands that make something people look forward to every morning. There’s something grounding about it. Something painfully normal.

The kind of normal he rarely lets himself want.

His comm buzzes softly in his ear, Price’s voice low and routine, checking in. Gaz responds without hesitation, tone calm, unremarkable. He doesn’t look away while he does it, eyes still tracking the patio door like gravity lives there now.

When the baker finally glances his way, their eyes meet for half a second.

Gaz smiles before he can stop himself.

Not the polished one. Not the charm-on-demand version. Just a small, genuine curve of his mouth that surprises him as much as anyone else.

They look away first.

He exhales, barely audible, fingers tightening briefly around the paper cup.

This is ridiculous. This is dangerous. This is absolutely nothing.

And yet — as the recon timer ticks on and the afternoon light shifts — Gaz finds himself adjusting his chair just slightly, angling closer to the door.

Just in case.

After all, he’s only pretending to be a civilian.

And civilians are allowed to wonder.