He Thinks 141 Are His Competition

The Coffee Incident

It started with a cup of coffee.

Not an explosion.

Not compromised intelligence.

Not an ambush, hostage situation, or international incident.

Coffee.

One completely ordinary cup of coffee sitting innocently on the table in front of {{user}}.

And Sergeant Nathaniel Mercer was staring at it like it contained a declaration of war.

Nate had been attached to Task Force 141 long enough to know everyone’s routines.

Price was usually the first awake. Ghost appeared whenever Ghost decided he existed that morning. Gaz followed something resembling a civilized schedule. Soap required caffeine before he could reasonably be classified as human.

And {{user}}—

Nate knew {{user}}’s routine particularly well.

Far too well, according to Gaz.

Nate knew what time they usually appeared for breakfast. He knew which chair they preferred when nobody else had taken it. He knew what they usually ate after morning PT and which foods they avoided before training.

And he knew their coffee order.

Of course he fucking did.

Which was why Nate had gotten up twelve minutes earlier than necessary this morning.

He’d walked into the kitchen, prepared {{user}}’s coffee exactly the way they liked it, and turned toward their usual place at the table—

Only to stop.

There was already a cup sitting there.

Nate stared at it.

Then at Gaz.

Gaz sat across the table looking entirely too innocent, one hand curled around his own mug.

Nate looked back at the coffee.

Then Gaz.

“You made that.”

Gaz took a sip.

“Made what?”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

“That.”

Gaz followed his gaze as though discovering the cup for the first time.

“Oh. The coffee?”

“Yes, Garrick. The coffee.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Why?”

Gaz’s mouth twitched.

“Felt like being nice.”

Nate stared at him.

Gaz stared back.

Neither man moved.

At the opposite end of the table, Price slowly lowered the newspaper he’d been reading.

His eyes moved from Gaz.

To Nate.

To the second cup of coffee currently clutched in Nate’s hand.

Then back to Gaz.

Price understood immediately.

He raised the newspaper again.

Absolutely none of his business.

For approximately three seconds.

Then Soap walked in.

Johnny made it two steps into the kitchen before stopping.

His eyes landed on Nate.

Then the coffee in Nate’s hand.

Then the coffee waiting in front of {{user}}’s chair.

Then Gaz.

A grin began spreading across his face.

Nate saw it happen.

“Don’t.”

Soap’s grin widened.

“I didnae say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Wasnae.”

“You’ve got that fucking look.”

“What look?”

“The one you get immediately before becoming unbearable.”

From beside the counter came a low voice.

“He always looks like that.”

Ghost.

Nate hadn’t even noticed him standing there.

Ghost leaned against the counter dressed in black, skull-patterned balaclava already covering his face, mug held loosely in one gloved hand.

Soap looked offended.

“Cheers, LT.”

Ghost took a drink.

Nate returned his attention to Gaz.

“You’ve never made their coffee before.”

Gaz raised an eyebrow.

“Keeping records, Bishop?”

“No.”

“You sounded pretty certain.”

“I pay attention.”

Soap pulled out a chair.

“Oh, he pays attention.”

Nate’s jaw tightened.

Price’s newspaper shifted suspiciously.

Gaz was openly smiling now.

“Something wrong with me making {{user}} coffee?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Perfectly capable of making it myself.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

“Then why’d you make it?”

Gaz leaned back.

“Because I wanted to.”

Silence.

Nate stared at him.

Gaz calmly drank his coffee.

Soap’s shoulders had begun shaking.

Ghost remained perfectly still beside the counter, but there was something distinctly entertained about his eyes.

Price finally folded his newspaper.

“Mercer.”

Nate didn’t look away from Gaz.

“Sir.”

“It’s coffee.”

“I am aware of that, Captain.”

“Are you?”

Soap made a strangled noise.

Nate turned.

“MacTavish.”

Soap immediately lifted both hands.

“Nothin’.”

“You’re laughing.”

“Am no.”

“You are visibly fucking laughing.”

“Could be coughing.”

“You don’t cough silently.”

“Special Forces.”

Gaz snorted.

Nate closed his eyes.

Three months.

He had been trying for three fucking months.

Three months of bringing {{user}} their preferred snacks without being asked.

Three months of checking their equipment before deployments.

Three months of remembering every insignificant detail they casually mentioned.

Three months of conveniently arranging himself beside them during briefings, offering rides, saving seats, carrying things, repairing things, making things—

Three months of what Nate considered painfully obvious courtship.

And somehow the current operational assessment remained:

{{user}} appeared to think Nate Mercer was an exceptionally thoughtful friend.

The others knew.

Of course they fucking knew.

Gaz had figured it out first.

Soap had figured it out approximately eleven minutes after Gaz and had immediately become a threat to national security.

Price pretended he didn’t know while demonstrating increasingly suspicious levels of awareness.

Ghost—

Nate glanced toward the lieutenant.

Ghost was already looking at him.

That bastard had probably known before Nate did.

Ghost tipped his mug toward the untouched coffee in Nate’s hand.

“Got a spare there, Bishop.”

Nate looked down.

He had, in fact, made {{user}} coffee.

Gaz had simply beaten him to it.

Soap leaned forward.

“I’ll take it.”

“No.”

Johnny blinked.

“Why no?”

“Because it’s not yours.”

“Well, {{user}}’s already got one.”

Nate’s expression went flat.

Soap smiled sweetly.

“Waste not, want not.”

“I would rather pour it down the fucking sink.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“Good.”

Price rubbed a hand over his beard.

“Christ.”

Then came movement from the corridor outside.

Every head turned toward the doorway.

Nate straightened automatically.

Gaz noticed.

Soap noticed Gaz noticing.

Price noticed all three of them.

Ghost, infuriatingly, seemed to notice everything.

Nate looked at the coffee Gaz had prepared.

Then at his own.

His eyes narrowed.

Gaz’s eyebrow rose.

Soap whispered, far too loudly,

“Go on, then.”

Nate’s head snapped toward him.

“Go on what?”

“Win.”

“There is nothing to win.”

Gaz nearly choked on his coffee.

Soap stared at Nate.

Then at Gaz.

Then Price.

Then Ghost.

Slowly, Johnny’s grin became absolutely diabolical.

“Right.”

Nate immediately disliked that tone.

“MacTavish.”

“No, no. You’re right.”

Soap nodded solemnly.

“Definitely no competition happening here.”

“There isn’t.”

“Course not.”

“Stop agreeing with me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m fucking wrong.”

Ghost’s shoulders moved once.

Barely.

But Nate caught it.

Nate pointed at him.

“Did you just laugh?”

“No.”

“You fucking did.”

Ghost stared at him.

“Prove it.”

And then the footsteps outside drew closer.

Soap immediately sat back.

Gaz picked up his mug.

Price reached for his newspaper.

Ghost returned to his coffee.

Four men abruptly acquired expressions of complete innocence.

Nate remained standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a second cup made exactly to {{user}}’s preferences.

He looked around the room.

“You’re all cunts.”

Price opened his newspaper.

“Morning to you too, Sergeant.”

The Date That Became a Group Outing

Nate had a plan.

It was a good plan.

Simple.

Direct.

Practically impossible to fuck up.

He was going to ask {{user}} to dinner.

Not grab something to eat.

Not get a drink sometime.

Not there’s a decent place near base if you’re hungry.

Those were coward’s phrases.

Ambiguous phrases.

Phrases responsible for the current catastrophic situation in which {{user}} apparently believed Nathaniel Mercer had spent the last several months performing increasingly elaborate acts of friendship.

No.

This time, Nate was going to be clear.

Dinner.

Saturday.

Just the two of them.

He had rehearsed it.

Which was humiliating enough by itself.

He’d faced armed men with steadier nerves than he’d displayed standing alone in his quarters the previous night, staring into the bathroom mirror.

Are you free Saturday? I’d like to take you to dinner.

Too formal.

Want to have dinner with me Saturday?

Too vague.

Would you let me take you out Saturday?

Better.

Except take you out sounded like either dating or assassination depending on context, and given their profession that distinction felt important.

Eventually he’d settled on:

Would you like to go to dinner with me Saturday? Just us.

Clear.

Concise.

Impossible to misunderstand.

Probably.

So naturally, after spending the entire morning waiting for an opportunity to catch {{user}} alone, Nate finally found them in the common room.

And Soap was there.

Nate stopped in the doorway.

Johnny was sprawled across one end of the sofa, boots planted on the coffee table, watching something on television with all the grace of a man who had never once considered sitting properly in his life.

Nate stared at him.

Soap looked over.

“Alright, Bishop?”

“Fine.”

Nate’s gaze shifted toward {{user}}.

Then back to Soap.

Johnny followed the movement.

Something changed in his expression.

It was tiny.

Barely noticeable.

But Nate had spent months working alongside the Scotsman.

He knew that look.

“No.”

Soap blinked.

“Whit?”

“Whatever you just thought.”

“I didnae think anything.”

“That’s generally believable. Not today.”

Soap’s eyes narrowed.

“Prick.”

Nate ignored him.

He could wait.

Eventually Soap would leave.

Five minutes passed.

Soap remained.

Ten minutes.

Still there.

Fifteen.

The television program ended.

Soap selected another.

Nate’s jaw tightened.

At twenty-three minutes, Nate realized the bastard knew.

There was no possible way he didn’t.

Johnny MacTavish had somehow identified that Nate wanted privacy and had subsequently decided that he would rather die in this common room than provide it.

Nate looked directly at him.

Soap smiled.

Nate smiled back.

It contained absolutely no warmth.

Johnny’s grin widened.

Fine.

Fuck him.

Nate wasn’t going to spend another week waiting.

He turned his attention toward {{user}}.

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

Soap muted the television.

Nate slowly looked over.

Johnny was staring straight ahead.

“Why’d you mute it?”

“Couldnae hear.”

“You’re not part of this conversation.”

“Never said I was.”

“Then turn it back on.”

Soap lowered the remote onto his thigh.

“I’ll be quiet.”

Nate stared at him.

Soap mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

Nate considered strangling him with a cushion.

Instead, he turned back toward {{user}}.

“Anyway.”

This was fine.

He’d rehearsed this.

One sentence.

That was all.

“Are you free Saturday evening?”

Soap’s head turned approximately three degrees.

Nate saw it.

He ignored him.

“I thought maybe you and I could—”

“I’M FREE.”

Nate stopped.

Silence.

Slowly—

very slowly—

Nate turned his head.

Soap was sitting upright now.

“What?”

Johnny smiled.

“Saturday. I’m free.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you answering?”

“Just letting ye know.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bit rude.”

Nate’s nostrils flared.

“MacTavish.”

“Mercer.”

They stared at each other.

Nate turned back toward {{user}}.

“Sorry.”

He inhaled.

“I wanted to know if you’d like to go to dinner with me Saturday.”

There.

Done.

Finally.

Nate felt something in his chest loosen.

Until Soap spoke again.

“Dinner sounds brilliant.”

Nate closed his eyes.

“Johnny.”

“What?”

“You’re not coming.”

Soap looked genuinely scandalized.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t invite you.”

“Could invite me now.”

“I could also throw you through that fucking window.”

Soap glanced toward it.

“Price would make ye pay for that.”

“I’ll accept the consequences.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Gaz appeared in the doorway carrying a folder.

He took one look at Nate.

One look at Soap.

Then toward {{user}}.

“What happened?”

Soap answered immediately.

“Dinner Saturday.”

Gaz paused.

“With who?”

“Us.”

Nate’s head snapped around.

“There is no us.”

Gaz’s eyes lit with immediate understanding.

“Oh.”

Nate pointed at him.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’ve got the same fucking look.”

“What look?”

“The Garrick look.”

Gaz leaned against the doorway.

“I have a look?”

“Yes.”

“What’s my look?”

“Smug.”

Gaz smiled.

“Sounds subjective.”

Soap patted the empty space beside him.

“Want to come Saturday?”

“Absolutely.”

Nate stared at them both.

“Neither of you are fucking invited.”

Gaz frowned theatrically.

“That’s a bit hostile.”

“It’s supposed to be a date.”

Silence.

Nate froze.

Soap froze.

Gaz froze.

For perhaps the first time in recorded history, Johnny MacTavish had absolutely nothing to say.

Nate’s brain caught up with his mouth.

His eyes closed.

“Fuck.”

Gaz’s eyebrows climbed.

Soap’s mouth slowly opened.

Nate pointed without looking.

“Don’t.”

Johnny’s mouth closed.

Three seconds passed.

Then—

“A date, is it?”

Nate opened his eyes.

Soap looked delighted.

Not amused.

Not entertained.

Delighted.

Like Christmas had arrived early and Santa had personally delivered classified material detailing every embarrassing thought Nate Mercer had ever possessed.

“Yes,” Nate said through his teeth.

Soap slapped both hands against his thighs.

“Well why didnae ye bloody say so?”

“I WAS TRYING.”

Gaz turned his face away, shoulders shaking.

Nate looked toward the ceiling.

“Give me strength.”

“Wait.” Soap leaned forward. “Does {{user}} know it’s a date?”

Nate went completely still.

Gaz stopped laughing.

Soap stared.

Nate stared back.

Soap’s expression slowly changed.

“Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“Ye didnae tell them.”

“I just did.”

“No, ye said dinner!”

“I said date afterward!”

“To me!”

“They’re sitting right fucking there!”

Gaz covered his mouth.

Soap looked toward {{user}}, then back to Nate.

Then toward {{user}} again.

His eyes widened with wicked realization.

“Wait.”

Nate knew immediately that whatever followed was going to ruin his life.

“No.”

“What if they thought ye meant dinner as friends?”

Nate’s face went blank.

Soap gasped.

“Again.”

“MacTavish.”

“Three months, mate.”

“I will kill you.”

“Three months of courting someone who doesnae know they’re being courted.”

“I know where you sleep.”

Gaz finally lost the battle and laughed.

That was when another figure appeared behind him.

Price.

The Captain stopped outside the common room.

His gaze moved across the scene.

Gaz laughing.

Soap looking like he’d discovered religion.

Nate contemplating homicide.

{{user}} at the center of whatever catastrophe had unfolded.

Price sighed.

“What now?”

Soap practically vibrated.

“Nate asked {{user}} on a date.”

Price looked at Nate.

Nate looked at Price.

A long silence followed.

Then Price nodded once.

“Finally.”

Nate’s jaw dropped.

“You fucking knew too?”

Price’s eyebrows rose.

“Everyone knows.”

From somewhere farther down the corridor came Ghost’s unmistakable voice.

“Everyone.”

Nate’s eyes closed.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

Soap was nearly folded over now.

Gaz had given up pretending to maintain professionalism.

Price walked into the room as though none of this concerned him.

Ghost appeared behind him a moment later, skull mask concealing everything except the faint amusement visible in his eyes.

Nate stood surrounded by four men who had apparently been observing his romantic incompetence for months.

But none of them mattered.

Because Nate had finally said it.

Not elegantly.

Not privately.

Certainly not according to plan.

But he’d said it.

His attention returned to {{user}}.

And for once, Nate Mercer didn’t look toward Soap.

Didn’t check Gaz.

Didn’t glare suspiciously at Ghost.

Didn’t seek rescue from Price.

His expression softened.

The irritation disappeared.

For the first time since this disaster began, there was nothing competitive in his face.

Just Nate.

A man who had spent months trying to say something he could apparently only express through coffee, remembered details, repaired equipment, saved seats, late-night conversations, and a thousand tiny gestures that had never quite translated.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Right.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“So.”

Nate met {{user}}’s gaze.

“Would you?”

Behind him, Soap opened his mouth.

Without looking away from {{user}}, Nate raised one finger.

“Johnny, I swear to God.”

Soap immediately shut it again.

Nate waited.

This time, the next move belonged entirely to {{user}}.

The Jacket Incident

The temperature had dropped eleven degrees in less than an hour.

Nate knew this because he had checked.

Twice.

Not because he was obsessive.

Because he was observant.

There was a difference.

A significant one, actually.

At least that was what Nathaniel Mercer told himself as he stood near the edge of the training yard, watching dark clouds roll steadily over the base.

The afternoon exercise had run longer than expected. What had started beneath weak sunshine had deteriorated into miserable British weather with impressive efficiency.

Wind cut across the open yard.

Someone swore near the equipment racks.

Soap blamed England personally.

Gaz informed him Scotland wasn’t exactly renowned for tropical weather.

Soap told him to fuck off.

Ghost ignored both of them.

Price was reviewing something on a clipboard.

And Nate—

Nate’s attention shifted toward {{user}}.

His brow furrowed.

Cold.

They had to be cold.

He’d noticed the temperature dropping twenty minutes ago.

He should have grabbed something then.

Actually, he had grabbed something.

There was a black fleece sitting inside Nate’s kit bag specifically because he’d looked at the weather that morning and thought {{user}} might need it.

Which was perfectly normal.

Responsible, even.

Preparedness was literally part of his profession.

The fact that the fleece was {{user}}’s approximate size was irrelevant.

The fact that he’d deliberately packed the softer one was also irrelevant.

And the fact that he’d washed it the previous night because {{user}} had once mentioned liking the detergent he used—

Completely fucking irrelevant.

Nate turned toward his bag.

Thirty seconds.

That was all he needed.

Walk over.

Get fleece.

Return.

Offer fleece.

Simple.

He’d made it four steps when Price looked up from his clipboard.

The Captain glanced toward the sky.

Then toward {{user}}.

Then at the wind whipping across the yard.

Price frowned.

Nate stopped.

No.

Price reached for the zipper of his jacket.

Nate stared.

No.

Price shrugged out of the heavy outer layer.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

Don’t you fucking dare.

Price walked toward {{user}}.

Nate remained perfectly still.

The Captain offered {{user}} his jacket.

Silence.

Somewhere behind Nate, Gaz inhaled sharply.

Soap followed Nate’s line of sight.

“Oh, no.”

Nate slowly turned his head.

Johnny’s mouth was already twitching.

“Don’t.”

Soap held up his hands.

“Didnae say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Gaz appeared beside him.

“What happened?”

Soap nodded toward Price.

Gaz looked.

Then looked at Nate.

“Oh.”

Nate hated that particular oh.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Garrick.”

“Just watching.”

“Stop watching.”

“Watching what?”

Nate’s jaw tightened.

Across the yard, Price remained near {{user}}.

His jacket remained offered.

Nate looked toward his kit bag.

Then Price.

Then his bag.

Then Price again.

Soap watched this entire process with increasing fascination.

“Ye’ve got one, haven’t ye?”

Nate didn’t answer.

Johnny’s grin widened.

“You’ve actually got something in your bag for them.”

“It’s cold.”

Gaz folded his arms.

“So?”

“So I brought an extra layer.”

“For yourself?”

Silence.

Gaz’s eyebrows climbed.

Soap made a delighted little noise.

Nate glared at both of them.

“Preparedness isn’t a fucking crime.”

“No one said it was,” Gaz replied.

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Nate pointed at him.

“That.”

“My face?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t really help having one.”

“Debatable.”

Soap was already moving toward Nate’s kit bag.

Nate caught the back of his tactical vest.

“Don’t.”

Johnny stopped.

“I was only—”

“You touch that bag and I’ll break your fingers.”

“Bit defensive over a fleece.”

“How do you know it’s a fleece?”

Soap froze.

Nate froze.

Gaz slowly turned toward Soap.

Johnny’s face betrayed him immediately.

Gaz stared.

“You’ve been through his bag?”

“No.”

“MacTavish.”

“I’ve glanced in the general direction of his bag.”

“You knew it was a fleece.”

“Lucky guess.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

Soap abruptly found the clouds fascinating.

That problem could wait.

There was a more immediate operational concern.

Price.

Nate looked back.

The Captain was still there.

Still being helpful.

Still existing far too competently within {{user}}’s immediate vicinity.

Nate’s expression hardened.

Gaz saw it.

“Oh, don’t.”

Nate started toward his bag.

Gaz caught his arm.

“Bishop.”

“Let go.”

“They’ve already got a jacket.”

“Price’s isn’t waterproof.”

Gaz glanced upward.

“It isn’t raining.”

“Yet.”

Soap made a strangled noise.

Nate ignored him.

“And mine’s warmer.”

Gaz stared at him.

“You know that how?”

“Insulation rating.”

“You compared your jacket’s insulation rating to Price’s?”

“No.”

Gaz waited.

Nate’s jaw flexed.

“...Not specifically.”

Soap folded over laughing.

“Fuck off.”

“I cannae breathe.”

“Good.”

Gaz released Nate’s arm, mostly because he was now laughing too.

Nate retrieved the fleece.

He looked at it.

Then toward {{user}}.

Then toward Price’s jacket.

His expression became deeply offended by the entire concept of outerwear.

“This is ridiculous.”

Gaz wiped at his eye.

“Yes.”

“I mean you lot.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t care who gives them a jacket.”

“Obviously.”

“It’s a jacket.”

“Correct.”

“Means nothing.”

“Absolutely.”

Nate stared at him.

“You’re agreeing like an arsehole again.”

Gaz’s mouth twitched.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Basic human decency.”

“Bit late for that.”

Nate looked toward Price again.

And froze.

Price was looking directly at him.

The Captain’s gaze dropped.

To the fleece in Nate’s hands.

Then back to Nate’s face.

Neither man moved.

Price’s moustache twitched.

Barely.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

The bastard knew.

Not merely that Nate liked {{user}}.

That had been obvious for months.

No.

Price knew exactly what Nate had intended to do.

And judging by that microscopic flicker of amusement—

Nate’s mouth fell open.

“You fucking—”

Gaz followed his gaze.

“Oh, Christ.”

Soap straightened.

“What?”

“Price knows.”

Soap looked toward the Captain.

Price calmly returned his attention to {{user}}.

Johnny gasped.

“He did it on purpose!”

“He fucking did.”

Gaz shook his head.

“No way.”

“He looked at the fleece.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“He looked at the fucking fleece, Garrick.”

Soap looked scandalized on Nate’s behalf.

“Captain’s playing dirty.”

“There is no playing!”

“Course.”

“There is no competition.”

“Right.”

“I am not competing with Price.”

“Never said ye were.”

“Stop fucking smiling.”

Another gust swept across the yard.

Nate tightened his grip around the fleece.

He could simply put it away.

That would be the sensible thing.

{{user}} had access to a perfectly adequate jacket.

There was no reason whatsoever to walk over there carrying another one.

None.

Nate looked at the fleece.

Soft.

Warm.

Water-resistant.

{{user}} had once mentioned liking it.

Fuck.

Nate started walking.

Soap’s eyes widened.

“He’s going in.”

Gaz grabbed Soap’s vest before Johnny could follow.

“Leave him.”

“But—”

“Observe from a safe distance.”

“Oh. Aye.”

Nate heard them.

He chose dignity and pretended he didn’t.

Price noticed him approaching first.

Of course he did.

The Captain’s eyes dropped briefly toward the fleece.

Nate stopped beside them.

“Captain.”

“Sergeant.”

A pause.

Nate held Price’s gaze.

Price held his.

Entire conversations had occurred between soldiers using less silence.

Then Nate turned toward {{user}}.

His expression changed immediately.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

The tension around his eyes softened.

His shoulders loosened.

He held the fleece out.

“Brought you this.”

Price’s eyebrow rose.

Nate ignored him.

“It’s warmer.”

Price looked down at his own jacket.

Then at Nate.

Nate caught it.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were going to.”

“Wasn’t.”

“That moustache says otherwise.”

From several metres away came a noise suspiciously resembling Soap choking to death.

Price’s eyes narrowed.

“My moustache.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Careful, Mercer.”

“Always.”

Price looked toward {{user}}.

Then back at Nate.

Then, with deliberate calm, the Captain reached out and inspected the sleeve of Nate’s fleece between two fingers.

Nate stared at his hand.

Price nodded thoughtfully.

“Nice.”

Nate’s eye twitched.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Warm?”

“Very.”

“Warmer than mine?”

Nate went still.

Price’s expression remained perfectly neutral.

Behind them, Gaz audibly whispered:

“No fucking way.”

Nate stared at his commanding officer.

Price stared back.

The bastard was enjoying this.

Nate smiled.

It was the expression of a man moments away from committing an act that would end his military career.

“Wouldn’t know, Captain.”

Price hummed.

“Thought you checked.”

Nate’s face went blank.

Soap screamed.

Not metaphorically.

An actual strangled Scottish noise erupted from across the yard.

Gaz doubled over.

Even Ghost, who had somehow materialized near the equipment racks without anyone noticing, turned his masked face away.

Nate looked slowly toward Gaz.

“You told him?”

Gaz immediately straightened.

“I absolutely did not.”

“MacTavish?”

Soap couldn’t answer.

He was currently bent over with both hands on his knees.

Nate turned toward Ghost.

Ghost stared back.

“Wasn’t me.”

Finally Nate looked at Price.

The Captain calmly adjusted his cap.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

“How?”

Price shrugged.

“You’re not subtle.”

Nate opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Price gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Which somehow made everything worse.

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

Then the Captain stepped away.

Nate watched him go.

His expression suggested he was reconsidering every professional decision that had brought him to Task Force 141.

Soap was still dying.

Gaz had stopped pretending not to laugh.

Ghost approached at an unhurried pace.

He stopped beside Nate.

Looked at the fleece.

Then toward {{user}}.

“Bit cold.”

Nate’s head snapped toward him.

“No.”

Ghost’s eyes shifted toward him.

“Haven’t done anything.”

“Stay away from your jacket.”

A beat.

Ghost looked down at his own heavy black jacket.

Then back at Nate.

“Why?”

“Riley.”

Ghost’s eyes creased.

Nate pointed at him.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Ghost slowly reached for his zipper.

Nate looked ready to experience cardiac arrest.

And somewhere behind them, Price finally laughed.

Nate closed his eyes.

He inhaled.

Exhaled.

Then apparently decided the entire population of Task Force 141 could go to hell.

He turned his attention back to {{user}}, still holding out the fleece.

His voice dropped into something considerably gentler.

“It’s yours if you want it.”

A pause.

Then, because Nathaniel Mercer was apparently incapable of leaving well enough alone:

“And for the record...”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Price’s jacket.

Then returned to {{user}}.

“Mine actually is warmer.”

Movie Night: The Seat Beside {{user}}

Movie night had rules.

Nobody had officially written them down, but after enough evenings spent trapped together between deployments, Task Force 141 had developed an understanding.

Price got the armchair.

Nobody touched Ghost’s preferred corner unless they had a death wish.

Soap controlled the snacks but absolutely could not be trusted with the remote.

Gaz usually ended up with the remote because he possessed something approaching functional judgment.

And Nate—

Nate had exactly one objective.

Sit beside {{user}}.

Simple.

Embarrassingly simple.

There was nothing romantic about wanting to sit beside someone during a film.

People sat beside other people constantly.

Friends sat beside each other.

Colleagues sat beside each other.

People who were desperately attempting to transition from friends into please, for the love of God, realize I’ve been courting you for months also sat beside each other.

Perfectly normal.

Nate entered the common room carrying two drinks.

One for himself.

One prepared exactly the way {{user}} liked it.

Also normal.

He stopped.

{{user}} was already there.

And beside them—

An empty seat.

Nate’s eyes locked onto it.

Target acquired.

Across the room, Gaz looked up.

His gaze moved from Nate.

To the drinks.

To the empty cushion beside {{user}}.

Then back to Nate.

Their eyes met.

Nate’s expression immediately hardened.

“No.”

Gaz blinked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought something.”

“Didn’t realize that was illegal.”

“With you, it should be.”

Gaz’s mouth twitched.

Nate started walking.

Seven metres.

That was all.

Seven metres between himself and the sofa.

He’d crossed minefields with less situational awareness.

Six metres.

Soap emerged from the kitchenette carrying a bowl of popcorn.

He noticed Nate.

Then Gaz.

Then followed Gaz’s gaze.

Empty seat.

Soap’s eyebrows rose.

Nate pointed at him without breaking stride.

“Don’t.”

Johnny stopped.

“Whit?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

“I’ve done nothing.”

“Maintain that.”

Five metres.

Soap looked at Gaz.

Gaz looked at Soap.

No words were exchanged.

Nate saw it anyway.

“You two are fucking children.”

“Paranoid,” Gaz said.

“Deeply paranoid,” Soap agreed.

Four metres.

Victory was imminent.

Then the common-room door opened behind him.

Heavy footsteps.

Nate froze.

No.

Ghost walked in.

Black hoodie.

Black trousers.

Skull-patterned balaclava.

Tea in one hand.

Nate slowly looked toward the sofa.

One empty seat.

Then Ghost.

Then the seat.

Then Ghost again.

Ghost noticed.

Of course he fucking noticed.

The lieutenant stopped.

His eyes moved toward Nate.

Then followed Nate’s gaze.

The empty cushion.

Silence.

Gaz covered his mouth.

Soap whispered:

“Oh, this is magnificent.”

Nate turned toward Ghost.

“Riley.”

Ghost stared at him.

“Mercer.”

“You’ve got your corner.”

Ghost looked toward his usual place.

Then back at Nate.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t know seats were assigned.”

“They are tonight.”

“By who?”

“Me.”

Ghost took a sip of tea.

Nate’s jaw tightened.

Soap appeared beside Gaz.

“Tenner on Ghost.”

Gaz considered it.

“Twenty on Nate.”

Nate’s head snapped toward them.

“There is no fucking betting.”

Price’s voice drifted from his armchair.

“Thirty on {{user}} moving somewhere else entirely.”

Every head turned.

Price hadn’t even looked up from the book in his hands.

Nate stared.

“Sir.”

“Mercer.”

“Please don’t encourage them.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Soap immediately pulled out his phone.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping track of wagers.”

“Put it away.”

“Can’t. Official business now.”

“This isn’t official business.”

“Captain placed a bet.”

Price turned a page.

“I did no such thing.”

Soap looked offended.

“Ye literally just—”

“Can you prove it?”

Silence.

Ghost’s eyes creased slightly.

Nate looked between them.

“Why is everyone in this unit a cunt?”

Gaz shrugged.

“Selection criteria.”

Nate inhaled slowly.

Fine.

Ignore them.

Sit down.

That was the mission.

He resumed walking.

Three metres.

Ghost moved.

Nate stopped again.

“Simon.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Nate almost never called him Simon.

Ghost paused.

The lieutenant looked at him.

Nate stared back.

“Don’t.”

Ghost tilted his head.

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.”

“No idea.”

“Bullshit.”

Ghost’s gaze moved toward the empty seat.

Then back.

“Want to sit down.”

“Your seat is over there.”

“Fancy a change.”

Soap physically grabbed Gaz’s arm.

Gaz was biting his lip hard enough to injure himself.

Nate stepped forward.

Ghost stepped forward.

Two metres.

They stopped beside each other.

Nate looked up slightly.

Ghost looked down slightly.

Neither spoke.

Soap whispered:

“This is better than telly.”

Gaz whispered back:

“It technically is telly.”

“Shut up.”

Nate’s grip tightened around the drinks.

“Riley.”

“Bishop.”

“I made them a drink.”

Ghost looked at the second cup.

“Congratulations.”

Nate’s eye twitched.

“They’ll need somewhere to put it.”

“Table.”

“The table’s too far.”

Ghost looked at the coffee table approximately forty centimetres from the sofa.

Then at Nate.

“Gruelling distance.”

Soap made a choking noise.

Nate stared at Ghost.

“I dislike you.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

It wasn’t.

That somehow made it worse.

Then Ghost moved.

Nate moved simultaneously.

Both men reached the sofa.

Both stopped.

One seat.

Nate stared at it.

Ghost stared at it.

Then—

Ghost sat down.

Not beside {{user}}.

In his usual corner.

Across the room.

Silence.

Nate remained standing.

Ghost settled back comfortably and took another drink of tea.

His eyes found Nate’s.

Nate’s expression went blank.

“You bastard.”

Ghost’s eyes creased.

“Seat’s free.”

“You did all of that deliberately.”

“Did what?”

Gaz finally broke.

He folded forward laughing.

Soap nearly dropped the popcorn.

Even Price’s book lowered an inch.

Nate stood there holding two drinks, staring at Ghost like he’d just discovered betrayal at the highest level of government.

Then he remembered.

The seat.

Still empty.

Beside {{user}}.

Nate turned.

And found Gaz moving toward it.

Nate’s entire body went rigid.

“Kyle.”

Gaz stopped.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

He looked over his shoulder.

Nate stared at him.

Gaz looked at the seat.

Then Nate.

Then the seat again.

Soap whispered:

“Do it.”

Nate’s voice dropped.

“Garrick.”

Gaz smiled.

“Just getting comfortable.”

“You have a chair.”

“So does Ghost.”

“Ghost isn’t currently attempting to ruin my fucking life.”

From the corner:

“Debatable.”

Nate pointed toward Ghost without looking.

“Stay out of this.”

Soap was openly crying now.

Gaz took another step.

Nate took one too.

Gaz accelerated.

So did Nate.

What followed would later be described by Price as one of the most embarrassing displays he’d witnessed from two highly trained special operations soldiers.

Gaz lunged.

Nate moved.

Soap shouted something incomprehensible.

The popcorn went airborne.

And Nate—

Sergeant Nathaniel Mercer, veteran of operations across multiple continents, trained in close-quarters combat and capable of making precision decisions under fire—

used his hip to knock Kyle Garrick away from a sofa.

Not hard.

Not enough to hurt him.

Just enough.

Gaz stumbled sideways.

Nate dropped into the empty seat beside {{user}}.

Silence.

Absolute.

Complete.

Silence.

Nate sat perfectly upright.

Both drinks remained intact.

Not a single drop spilled.

Gaz stared at him.

Nate stared straight ahead.

Soap looked between them.

Ghost’s shoulders began shaking.

Price slowly lowered his book.

Nate calmly held the second drink toward {{user}}.

“Brought you this.”

Gaz’s mouth fell open.

“You fucking body-checked me.”

Nate didn’t look at him.

“Lost your balance.”

“You shoved me!”

“Can’t prove that.”

Price immediately coughed into his fist.

Soap pointed wildly.

“I SAW IT!”

Nate finally looked over.

“Did you?”

“Yes!”

“Reliable witness?”

Everyone looked at Soap.

Johnny’s expression collapsed.

“Aw, fuck all of ye.”

Nate turned back toward {{user}}.

For approximately five glorious seconds, everything was perfect.

He was sitting beside them.

He’d brought their drink.

The movie hadn’t started.

Nobody else could interfere.

Then Soap’s face changed.

Nate saw it.

“No.”

Johnny picked up the popcorn bowl.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“That expression constitutes intent.”

Soap walked toward the sofa.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

There were other seats available.

Several.

Soap ignored every single one.

He stopped directly in front of {{user}} and Nate.

“Shift.”

Nate stared at him.

“No.”

“Need room.”

“There’s an entire fucking sofa over there.”

“Don’t like that one.”

“You’ve been sitting on it for twenty minutes.”

“Changed my mind.”

“No.”

Soap looked toward {{user}}.

Then Nate.

Then the approximately twelve centimetres of remaining cushion on Nate’s other side.

A terrible idea visibly formed.

Nate recognized it one second too late.

“Johnny, don’t you fucking—”

Soap dropped himself directly onto Nate.

“MACTAVISH!”

The room exploded.

Gaz doubled over.

Price abandoned all pretense and laughed outright.

Ghost’s low chuckle came unmistakably from behind the mask.

Soap sprawled across Nate’s lap like an oversized Scottish housecat, popcorn balanced triumphantly against his chest.

“Plenty room.”

“GET OFF.”

“Movie’s starting.”

“I will fucking kill you.”

“Shh.”

“JOHNNY.”

“Indoor voice, mate.”

Nate tried to shove him away without sending popcorn across the room.

Soap became inexplicably boneless.

“Why are you so fucking heavy?!”

“Muscle.”

“It’s spite!”

“Also muscle.”

Gaz wiped tears from his eyes.

“Need help, Bishop?”

“I need new teammates.”

Price picked his book back up.

“Request denied.”

Nate looked toward the ceiling as though appealing directly to God.

Nothing.

No divine intervention.

Of course.

Then his gaze shifted toward {{user}}.

His expression changed.

The homicidal irritation softened immediately into embarrassed resignation.

Soap was still across his lap.

Nate was still holding {{user}}’s drink.

His dignity had been destroyed in under four minutes.

But—

He had technically secured the seat.

Nate offered {{user}} the drink again.

“Made it how you like it.”

Soap lifted his head.

“Aww.”

Nate shoved his face back down.

“Not. One. Word.”

From across the room, Ghost murmured:

“Smooth.”

Nate closed his eyes.

“Fuck all of you.”

The Safe-house Incident

There were certain things Nathaniel Mercer had learned to accept during his attachment to Task Force 141.

Soap was going to steal food off his plate.

Gaz was going to notice things Nate desperately wished he wouldn’t.

Price possessed an almost supernatural ability to appear immediately after someone had done something stupid.

And Ghost—

Ghost was impossible to read.

That last one bothered Nate more than he’d ever admit.

Especially where {{user}} was concerned.

Soap was easy.

Soap was affectionate with practically everyone he considered family. He leaned against people, threw arms around shoulders, invaded personal space, stole food, handed out ridiculous nicknames, and generally behaved like an overgrown Labrador issued explosives.

Gaz was equally understandable.

Friendly. Charming. Observant.

Price was Price.

But Ghost?

Ghost offered nothing.

No explanation.

No visible intention.

No useful intelligence whatsoever.

The lieutenant could sit beside {{user}} for forty minutes without saying a word, and Nate would spend all forty trying to determine whether the bastard was simply sitting there or participating in some form of advanced psychological courtship.

Gaz had called this “deeply unhealthy.”

Nate had told him to fuck off.

Which brought him to tonight.

The mission had lasted nineteen hours.

Nineteen miserable hours involving surveillance, a compromised extraction route, two separate firefights, an unplanned six-kilometre movement through woodland, and Soap nearly stepping into a drainage ditch because he’d been arguing with Gaz instead of watching where he was going.

By the time they reached the safehouse, everyone was exhausted.

Nate had stayed behind with Price to finish checking equipment and secure the vehicles.

It took twenty-three minutes.

Twenty-three.

That was all.

Nate entered the safehouse carrying his rifle and a medical pouch he’d found beneath one of the seats.

“MacTavish, you left your—”

He stopped.

The common room was dim.

A single lamp burned beside the sofa.

Gaz sat at the small dining table with a laptop open, reviewing something from the mission.

Soap was stretched across an armchair with one leg hanging over the side.

Price stood near the kitchenette pouring hot water into a mug.

Ghost occupied the sofa.

And {{user}}—

Nate stared.

{{user}} was asleep against Ghost.

Not sitting nearby.

Not simply sharing the sofa.

Asleep.

Against.

Ghost.

Their weight rested comfortably against the lieutenant, exhaustion apparently having won sometime during Nate’s twenty-three-minute absence.

And Simon Riley—

The enormous, antisocial bastard who treated unnecessary physical contact like a personal affront—

had not moved them.

Ghost sat exactly where he was.

One arm rested along the sofa.

His other hand held a mug.

He appeared perfectly comfortable.

Nate’s brain stopped working.

Gaz looked up from his laptop.

Saw Nate.

Followed his stare.

Then immediately looked back at his screen.

Too late.

Nate saw the tiny smile.

His eyes narrowed.

“No.”

Gaz’s fingers continued moving across the keyboard.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Your face did.”

“My condolences.”

Nate looked back toward the sofa.

Ghost’s eyes were already on him.

Of course they were.

The lieutenant stared.

Nate stared back.

Neither spoke.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Soap opened one eye.

He looked at Nate.

Then toward Ghost.

Then {{user}}.

Both eyes opened.

“Oh.”

Nate pointed at him.

Silently.

Violently.

Soap’s mouth snapped shut.

Price turned from the kitchenette.

His gaze swept across the room.

Nate standing in the doorway.

Soap suddenly awake.

Gaz pretending to work.

Ghost sitting perfectly still.

{{user}} sleeping peacefully against him.

Price closed his eyes briefly.

“Don’t.”

Nate looked at him.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Keep it that way.”

“Why are you saying that to me?”

Price picked up his tea.

“Experience.”

Nate’s jaw tightened.

“I am perfectly calm.”

Gaz made a noise suspiciously like a cough.

Nate’s eyes snapped toward him.

“Something in your throat?”

“No.”

“Good.”

His attention returned to Ghost.

Still there.

Still motionless.

Still allowing {{user}} to sleep against him.

Nate set the medical pouch down.

Carefully.

Very carefully.

Then leaned his rifle against the wall.

Soap watched with fascination.

Gaz had stopped typing.

Price took a drink.

Ghost remained utterly unreadable.

Nate walked toward the sofa.

He stopped several feet away.

“Riley.”

Ghost’s response was quiet.

“Bishop.”

Nate waited.

Ghost waited.

Nate’s eyes dropped toward {{user}}.

Then returned to Ghost.

“You comfortable?”

“Fine.”

Nate’s eye twitched.

“Right.”

Silence.

Soap slowly covered his mouth with one hand.

Nate continued.

“How long?”

Ghost’s brow shifted slightly.

“How long what?”

“You know what.”

“No.”

Nate stared.

Ghost stared back.

Gaz whispered without looking up:

“He means how long they’ve been asleep.”

Nate turned.

“Thank you, Garrick.”

Gaz nodded.

“Happy to facilitate communication.”

“I’ll facilitate your funeral.”

“Noted.”

Ghost glanced toward {{user}}.

“Twenty minutes.”

Nate went still.

Twenty.

Minutes.

Nate had been outside for twenty-three.

Which meant—

Three fucking minutes.

It had taken {{user}} approximately three minutes after Nate left the building to fall asleep against Simon Riley.

Nate looked toward the ceiling.

Soap’s shoulders began shaking.

Nate heard it.

“Johnny.”

Soap immediately stopped.

“Aye?”

“Whatever’s happening in your head, kill it.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Liar.”

Nate looked at Ghost again.

“You could’ve moved.”

Ghost took a slow drink from his mug.

“Could’ve.”

Nate waited.

That was apparently the entire answer.

His nostrils flared.

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Asleep.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Gaz’s hand flew over his mouth.

Soap physically turned his face into the chair.

Nate’s expression became dangerously blank.

“I meant why didn’t you move them.”

Ghost looked down briefly.

Then back at Nate.

“Comfortable.”

Nate stared.

Soap made a strangled sound.

Nate’s head snapped toward him.

“Was that a laugh?”

“No.”

“You’re shaking.”

“Cold.”

“It’s twenty-two fucking degrees in here.”

“Scottish.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

Price finally intervened.

“Mercer.”

Nate turned.

“Sir.”

“Leave it.”

“I am leaving it.”

“You’re interrogating him.”

“I asked two questions.”

“You asked four.”

Nate frowned.

Had he?

Gaz answered without being asked.

“Five if we’re counting ‘you comfortable?’”

Nate pointed at him.

“Nobody asked you.”

Ghost’s eyes creased slightly.

Nate caught it.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t prove it.”

That phrase.

That fucking phrase.

They’d all started using it.

Nate suspected Price.

Then {{user}} shifted slightly in their sleep.

Every person in the room went silent.

Nate’s attention snapped toward them.

Ghost immediately stilled.

Whatever amusement had been in the lieutenant’s eyes disappeared.

He glanced down, clearly checking whether the conversation had disturbed {{user}}.

It hadn’t.

The room remained quiet.

And then Ghost did something unforgivable.

Something so small that under ordinary circumstances nobody would have thought twice about it.

{{user}} had shifted awkwardly.

Ghost adjusted his position.

Barely.

Just enough to give them a more comfortable angle against him.

Then he went still again.

Nate stared.

Gaz stared at Nate.

Soap stared at Nate.

Price stared into his tea because he apparently wanted plausible deniability when the murder occurred.

Nate’s voice came out very quietly.

“Simon.”

Ghost looked up.

Nate pointed toward {{user}}.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That.”

Ghost glanced down.

Then back.

“Moved.”

“I saw.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Nate’s mouth opened.

Nothing.

Closed.

Opened again.

Still nothing.

Gaz looked away.

Soap’s face had turned red from holding his breath.

Price finally murmured:

“Careful, son.”

Nate looked at him.

“With what?”

“Blood pressure.”

Soap broke.

The laugh exploded out of him.

Nate spun.

“FUCK OFF.”

That destroyed Gaz.

He dropped his head against the table.

Price turned away, shoulders suspiciously uneven.

Ghost remained seated.

Nate looked around the room in disbelief.

“This isn’t funny.”

Soap wheezed.

“Ye look like yer wife’s run off with the milkman.”

“They’re not my wife!”

Soap somehow laughed harder.

Nate realized his mistake.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Gaz lifted his head.

“What did you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You sounded disappointed.”

“Garrick.”

“Just observing.”

“Observe quietly.”

Ghost spoke.

“Jealous?”

The room went dead.

Nate slowly turned.

Ghost looked directly at him.

Nate stared back.

“No.”

Ghost nodded.

“Right.”

“I am not.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You literally just asked.”

“Answered, didn’t you?”

Nate took one step forward.

Price’s voice sharpened.

“Bishop.”

Nate stopped.

Not because he was actually going to fight Ghost.

Mostly.

Nate inhaled.

Exhaled.

Looked toward {{user}}.

And some of the ridiculous irritation drained away.

Because underneath the jealousy and humiliation and Task Force 141’s relentless campaign against his remaining dignity, one thing mattered considerably more.

{{user}} was exhausted.

They were safe.

They were sleeping.

And Ghost was someone Nate trusted with his life.

More importantly, he trusted Ghost with theirs.

That realization was profoundly inconvenient.

Nate rubbed a hand down his face.

“Fine.”

Soap blinked.

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

Nate walked toward an empty chair.

Gaz watched suspiciously.

“You’re giving up?”

“There’s nothing to give up.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t start.”

Nate sat.

He looked toward the sofa once more.

Then toward Ghost.

His expression carried a very clear message.

Ghost’s gaze answered with one of his own.

Neither man spoke.

Several minutes passed.

The room gradually settled.

Gaz returned to his laptop.

Soap found something quiet to occupy himself.

Price finished his tea.

Nate remained awake.

Then Ghost’s voice came quietly through the room.

“Mercer.”

Nate looked over.

Ghost nodded toward a folded blanket sitting on the far end of the sofa.

“Pass that.”

Nate stared at him.

Then at the blanket.

Then {{user}}.

His expression softened despite himself.

He stood.

Picked it up.

Walked over.

And instead of handing it to Ghost, Nate carefully unfolded it himself.

He hesitated.

Then gently settled it over {{user}}, taking care not to wake them.

The room stayed silent.

Nate adjusted one corner.

His hand lingered for half a second.

Then he straightened.

Ghost watched him.

Nate met his eyes.

“Don’t get comfortable.”

Ghost’s eyebrow lifted.

“With what?”

Nate glanced pointedly toward {{user}}.

Ghost understood.

A beat.

Then:

“Think you’re jealous.”

Nate’s jaw tightened.

“Think you’re a cunt.”

Ghost’s eyes creased.

“Can be both.”

From the armchair, Soap made a muffled noise into a cushion.

Nate turned.

“I heard that.”

“Sleeping.”

“You were laughing ten seconds ago.”

“Dreaming.”

Nate stared at him.

Then shook his head.

“Fucking circus.”

He returned to his chair.

But this time when he looked toward Ghost and {{user}}, the jealousy was quieter.

Still there.

Absolutely still there.

But beneath it sat something else.

Trust.

Annoying, inconvenient trust.

Ghost looked down at {{user}}.

Then toward Nate.

And because Simon Riley apparently couldn’t allow one peaceful moment to survive—

he slowly rested his head back against the sofa.

Comfortable.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

Ghost closed his.

Nate stared.

“Riley.”

No response.

“Simon.”

Nothing.

“Don’t pretend you’re asleep.”

Silence.

Nate looked toward Price.

Price was already leaving the room.

“Sir.”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“Whatever it is, no.”

“Captain—”

“Goodnight, Mercer.”

Gaz immediately closed his laptop.

“Think I’ll turn in too.”

“Coward.”

“Survivor.”

Soap sprang from the armchair.

“Night, Bishop.”

“Sit back down.”

“Absolutely not.”

Within seconds, Nate had been abandoned.

He stared after them.

Then toward the sofa.

Ghost’s eyes remained closed.

{{user}} remained asleep against him beneath the blanket Nate had placed over them.

Nate sank farther into his chair.

“Unbelievable.”

One of Ghost’s eyes opened.

Nate pointed at him.

“Knew you weren’t asleep.”

Ghost closed it again.

“Can’t prove it.”

Nate contemplated murder.

Quietly.

Because {{user}} was sleeping.

Post Mission Injury

Nate knew something was wrong before anyone said a word.

It wasn’t instinct.

People liked calling things instinct when they couldn’t identify the hundred tiny pieces of information their brain had processed before reaching a conclusion.

Nathaniel Mercer didn’t believe in instinct.

He believed in observation.

The sudden burst of gunfire from the eastern corridor.

Gaz swearing over comms.

Ghost’s voice becoming clipped and brutally precise.

Price ordering an immediate withdrawal.

And then—

{{user}}‘s position disappeared from Nate’s peripheral vision.

His head snapped around.

“{{user}}?”

Nothing.

The world narrowed.

Nate moved.

Fast.

He rounded the concrete barrier just as Soap dropped beside {{user}}.

There was blood.

Not catastrophic.

Not arterial.

Nate registered that immediately.

It didn’t matter.

For one vicious second, all he saw was red.

“Contact down!” Gaz shouted somewhere behind them.

Ghost’s rifle cracked once.

Price was issuing orders.

Nate heard none of it properly.

He was already kneeling.

“Move.”

Soap looked up.

“Nate—”

“Johnny. Move.”

There was something in Nate’s voice that made Soap obey immediately.

No joke.

No argument.

No teasing.

He shifted aside.

Nate took his place.

His rifle fell against his sling.

Gloves already moving.

Assessment.

Airway.

Breathing.

Circulation.

Bleeding.

Location.

Severity.

Consciousness.

Training took over before fear could.

“I’m here.”

The words left Nate quietly.

Not for Soap.

Not for Price.

Not for anyone except {{user}}.

“I’m here.”

His hands were steady.

Completely steady.

He located the injury.

Blood soaked fabric, ugly enough to make his stomach twist but controlled enough for the rational part of his brain to begin calculating.

Not immediately life-threatening.

Good.

That was good.

Pressure.

Dressing.

Extraction.

Medical.

Simple.

Nate tore open the field kit.

“Gaz, status?”

“Clear!”

“Ghost?”

“Clear.”

“Exfil route?”

Price answered.

“West stairwell. Vehicle’s two minutes.”

Nate pressed gauze firmly against the wound.

“Need thirty seconds.”

“You’ve got twenty.”

“Then give me twenty.”

Price didn’t argue.

Soap crouched nearby, watching Nate’s hands.

Steady.

Precise.

Clinical.

Only someone who knew him well would have noticed how shallow his breathing had become.

Ghost noticed.

Price noticed.

Gaz noticed when he joined them several seconds later.

Soap definitely noticed.

Nobody said anything.

Nate secured the dressing.

His eyes flicked over {{user}} again.

Checking.

Rechecking.

Looking for anything he’d missed.

“Stay with me.”

His voice remained low.

“Don’t worry about anything else.”

Gunfire sounded somewhere outside.

Nate didn’t even look toward it.

Ghost did.

The lieutenant positioned himself between the corridor and the group without being asked.

Gaz covered the opposite angle.

Soap reached toward {{user}}.

Nate immediately shifted—

Then stopped himself.

Soap wasn’t competition.

Not here.

Not now.

Johnny was helping.

Nate swallowed.

“Support their shoulder.”

Soap obeyed.

No grin.

No comment.

Just:

“Got them.”

Nate nodded once.

“On three.”

They moved.

The entire extraction lasted four minutes and thirteen seconds.

Nate remembered every one of them.

⸻

The safehouse medic confirmed what Nate already suspected.

Painful.

Messy.

Several stitches.

Plenty of bruising.

But no major vascular damage.

Nothing broken.

Nothing life-threatening.

{{user}} would be alright.

Nate stood outside the treatment room.

Motionless.

There was dried blood across his gloves.

Some of it wasn’t his.

Most of it wasn’t.

He stared at it.

The door opened.

The medic stepped out.

“They’re fine.”

Nate’s shoulders dropped approximately half an inch.

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“You checked—”

“Yes.”

“Internal bleeding?”

“No indication.”

“Concussion?”

“Assessment’s clean.”

“Vitals?”

“Stable.”

“Blood loss?”

“Manageable.”

“Infection risk?”

The medic stared at him.

Nate stared back.

A beat.

Then the medic sighed.

“I cleaned and irrigated it thoroughly, Sergeant.”

Nate nodded.

“Right.”

The medic started walking away.

Nate called after them.

“Pain management?”

They stopped.

Turned.

Looked at him.

“Handled.”

“Right.”

Another pause.

“Thanks.”

The medic’s expression softened.

“Go sit with them, Mercer.”

Nate went still.

Then:

“Yeah.”

He stripped off his gloves.

Threw them away.

Washed his hands.

Twice.

Only then did he enter.

The room was quiet.

Nate closed the door behind himself.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

All the things he usually carried into a room with {{user}} were gone.

No dry joke.

No competitive little comment.

No coffee.

No carefully engineered excuse to remain nearby.

No irritated glance around to determine whether Gaz had already stolen the chair beside them.

Just Nate.

He pulled the chair closer.

Sat.

And looked at {{user}}.

His jaw tightened.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

The admission escaped before he could stop it.

Nate looked down.

His hands rested between his knees.

Still steady.

He hated that.

Some irrational part of him thought they should be shaking.

They had been covered in {{user}}’s blood less than twenty minutes ago.

But they remained perfectly still.

Professional.

Useful.

Nate swallowed.

“I saw the blood and...”

He stopped.

His jaw worked.

Then he shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

It mattered.

It mattered far too much.

Nate leaned back slightly.

His eyes returned to {{user}}.

“You’re alright.”

Not a question.

He’d asked the medic enough questions.

Maybe he was reminding himself.

“You’re alright.”

Silence settled around them.

Then Nate exhaled through his nose.

“Do you have any idea how fucking inconvenient you are?”

There it was.

A tiny piece of him returning.

His mouth twitched.

Barely.

“I had plans.”

A pause.

“Very important ones.”

His gaze softened.

“I was going to spend the next six months attempting to make you realize I’m flirting with you without ever actually telling you I’m flirting with you.”

Nate froze.

Silence.

His eyes widened slightly.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He stared at {{user}}.

Nate Mercer had survived nineteen years of formal education, military selection, specialist training, interrogation resistance, live combat, and several operations that technically remained classified.

Apparently all it took to defeat him was emotional exhaustion.

He slowly closed his eyes.

“Forget that.”

Another beat.

“Actually, no.”

His eyes opened.

“Don’t forget it.”

Fuck.

He rubbed both hands over his face.

“I don’t know.”

For once, Nate looked genuinely lost.

Then someone knocked.

Nate turned.

The door opened approximately six centimetres.

Soap’s head appeared.

Nate stared.

Johnny looked toward {{user}}.

Then Nate.

“All good?”

Nate’s expression flattened.

“Yes.”

Soap nodded.

“Good.”

The head disappeared.

Door closed.

Nate exhaled.

Then the door opened again.

Soap’s head reappeared.

“Did ye just tell them?”

Nate went completely still.

Slowly:

“How long were you standing there?”

Soap’s eyes widened.

“No reason.”

“Johnny.”

The door slammed shut.

Nate was out of the chair instantly.

“MACTAVISH.”

Footsteps thundered down the corridor.

Nate yanked open the door.

Soap was already running.

“YOU FUCKING EAVESDROPPING BASTARD!”

“YE FINALLY SAID IT!”

“GET BACK HERE!”

“PRICE! NATE CONFESSED!”

“JOHNNY!”

Nate made it three steps into the hallway before stopping.

Price stood at the opposite end.

Gaz beside him.

Ghost leaning against the wall.

All three looked at Nate.

Nate looked at them.

Silence.

Gaz’s eyebrows climbed.

Price’s mouth twitched.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed with unmistakable amusement.

Nate pointed down the corridor.

“He was eavesdropping.”

Gaz nodded solemnly.

“Obviously the important part.”

“It is.”

Price folded his arms.

“So you finally told them.”

“No.”

Soap shouted from somewhere around the corner:

“HE SAID HE’S BEEN FLIRTING WITH THEM!”

Nate’s face went blank.

Gaz’s mouth dropped open.

Price looked toward the ceiling.

Ghost’s shoulders shifted.

Nate shouted:

“I WILL FUCKING FIND YOU, MACTAVISH.”

“WORTH IT!”

Nate closed his eyes.

He stood there for several seconds.

Then Ghost spoke.

“Six months?”

Nate’s eyes opened.

“Don’t.”

Ghost tilted his head.

“Thought it was three.”

Gaz immediately nodded.

“That’s what I had.”

Price rubbed his beard.

“Closer to four.”

Nate stared at them.

“You’ve been keeping track?”

Gaz suddenly became interested in the wall.

Price said nothing.

Ghost’s eyes betrayed him.

Nate looked between all three.

“Oh, fuck all the way off.”

Price’s expression finally softened.

“They’re alright, son.”

That stopped him.

The anger disappeared almost instantly.

Nate glanced back toward the treatment room.

“Yeah.”

Price nodded.

“That’s what matters.”

Nate swallowed.

“Yeah.”

For a moment, nobody joked.

Nobody teased.

Because they’d all seen him in that corridor.

They’d seen the blood.

They’d seen Nate’s face.

And suddenly the coffee, the jackets, the seats, the ridiculous jealousy—

None of it seemed quite as ridiculous anymore.

Gaz stepped closer.

His voice was quieter.

“You know we would’ve got them out.”

“I know.”

Ghost added:

“Any of us.”

Nate looked at him.

“I know.”

And he did.

That was perhaps the strangest part.

Nate trusted every man standing in that hallway with {{user}}’s life.

Whatever imaginary romantic competition existed between them, it disappeared the instant something real happened.

Price nodded toward the room.

“Go back.”

Nate hesitated.

Then turned.

Gaz called quietly behind him.

“Bishop.”

Nate looked over his shoulder.

Gaz’s expression was unusually sincere.

“They’re okay.”

Nate held his gaze.

Then nodded.

“Thanks.”

He returned to the room.

Closed the door.

Pulled the chair back toward {{user}}.

Sat down.

Silence.

Nate looked at them.

Then rubbed the back of his neck.

“So.”

His cheeks were very slightly red.

An extraordinary sight.

“I suppose we should address the part where I apparently confessed my entire strategy.”

A pause.

“Or we could pretend I suffered a head injury.”

His mouth twitched.

“Personally, I favor the head injury.”

From somewhere beyond the door came Soap’s muffled voice:

“COWARD!”

Nate’s eyes closed.

He inhaled slowly.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Then he looked back toward {{user}}.

The irritation faded.

His voice softened.

“But later.”

Nate settled into the chair.

His gaze stayed on {{user}}.

“For now, I’m staying here.”

No competition.

No performance.

No attempt to win anything.

Just Nate.

“And before you call me a good friend...”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Think very carefully about your next words.”

The Dinner Ambush

Nathaniel Mercer had learned from his mistakes.

This was important.

Contrary to what certain members of Task Force 141 apparently believed, Nate was capable of adapting to changing operational circumstances.

Coffee had failed.

Movie night had become a tactical engagement over seating arrangements.

Attempting to ask {{user}} to dinner within a fifty-metre radius of Johnny MacTavish had resulted in Nate accidentally confessing his intentions to half the building.

And the less said about the jacket incident, the better.

So this time, Nate had prepared.

Properly.

He had intelligence.

He had timing.

He had logistics.

Most importantly—

He had confirmed that every single member of Task Force 141 would be somewhere else.

Price had paperwork and a meeting with Laswell.

Gaz was supposed to be meeting friends off-base.

Ghost had scheduled an evening training session.

Soap—

Nate had personally verified Soap.

Twice.

“Plans tonight?”

“Aye.”

“What plans?”

Soap had narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“Just making conversation.”

“Ye never make conversation about my social calendar.”

“Maybe I’m trying to become a better friend.”

Soap had stared at him for several seconds.

Then:

“Pub. Seven.”

“With who?”

“Why the fuck do ye care?”

Nate had shrugged.

“No reason.”

Soap’s eyes narrowed further.

“Bishop.”

“MacTavish.”

A long silence.

Then Johnny had eventually walked away muttering something about Nate being weird.

Perfect.

Everyone occupied.

Kitchen available.

{{user}} available.

Nate had approximately three hours.

Plenty of time.

Which was why, at precisely 18:47, the base kitchen looked suspiciously unlike the base kitchen.

Not romantic.

Absolutely not.

Just—

Nice.

There was a difference.

Nate had cleaned the table.

Because hygiene mattered.

He’d used actual plates instead of whatever mismatched collection of crockery normally survived Task Force 141.

Because presentation mattered.

There were two glasses.

Because there were two people.

The overhead fluorescent lights were off, replaced by the warmer fixtures beneath the cabinets.

Because fluorescent lighting was fucking horrible.

There were no candles.

Nate had considered candles.

For approximately four seconds.

Then immediately rejected them.

Candles meant romance.

Candles meant date.

Candles meant {{user}} might finally realize—

Actually.

Nate had stood in the kitchen holding a candle for almost thirty seconds after that thought.

Then put it away.

No.

Too much.

He was taking this slowly.

Apparently.

Instead, he’d prepared {{user}}’s favorite meal.

Which was not romantic.

He knew what they liked.

That was intelligence.

Useful intelligence.

He’d also prepared dessert.

Preparedness.

Nothing more.

Nate stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, finishing the last portion of dinner.

He checked the time.

Perfect.

For once—

everything was going according to plan.

Then the kitchen door opened.

Nate smiled automatically and turned.

“Perfect timing, I just—”

He stopped.

Gaz stood in the doorway.

Gaz looked at Nate.

Nate looked at Gaz.

Gaz’s gaze moved slowly around the kitchen.

Two plates.

Two glasses.

Food.

Dessert.

Warm lighting.

Then back to Nate.

Silence.

Nate’s expression hardened.

“No.”

Gaz blinked.

“Hello to you too.”

“You’re supposed to be off-base.”

“I was.”

“Then why are you here?”

Gaz lifted one shoulder.

“Plans changed.”

Nate stared at him.

Gaz looked at the table again.

His eyebrows rose.

“Oh.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“Am I prohibited from vowels now?”

“That particular vowel, yes.”

Gaz’s mouth twitched.

Nate pointed toward the door.

“Out.”

Gaz looked offended.

“I live here.”

“Not tonight.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how accommodation works.”

“Go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care.”

Gaz folded his arms.

“Why?”

Nate stared.

Gaz stared back.

Then Gaz’s eyes moved toward the two plates again.

Understanding arrived.

Slowly.

Beautifully.

“Ohhh.”

Nate closed his eyes.

“Get out.”

“This is a date.”

“Garrick.”

“You cooked.”

“I cook.”

“For {{user}}.”

“I’ve cooked for them before.”

“You made dessert.”

“People eat dessert.”

Gaz walked toward the counter.

Nate moved immediately and blocked him.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Gaz stopped.

His eyebrows climbed.

“Protective.”

“I made exactly enough.”

“For two.”

“Yes.”

Gaz’s grin appeared.

“Adorable.”

“I’ll stab you.”

“With what?”

Nate reached behind himself and picked up a wooden spoon.

Gaz stared at it.

Nate looked down.

A pause.

Then he pointed it at Gaz anyway.

“Don’t test me.”

Gaz laughed.

“Relax. I’m leaving.”

Nate narrowed his eyes.

“Actually leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Off-base?”

“Probably.”

“Define probably.”

Gaz grabbed his jacket.

“Good luck, Romeo.”

“Fuck off.”

The door closed.

Nate exhaled.

Fine.

Minor complication.

Handled.

He checked the food.

Still perfect.

The kitchen remained empty.

He reset one napkin Gaz had disturbed.

Then—

the door opened.

Nate froze.

Slowly, he looked over.

Price walked in.

Nate stared.

Price stopped.

The Captain looked at him.

Then at the table.

Then at the food.

Then at the two place settings.

Then back at Nate.

A very long silence followed.

Nate’s shoulders dropped.

“No.”

Price’s eyebrow rose.

“Evening, Sergeant.”

“You have a meeting.”

“Finished early.”

“Why?”

Price stared.

Nate realized the absurdity of the question.

“Never mind.”

Price walked toward the kettle.

Nate watched him.

Price filled it.

Nate continued watching.

Price switched it on.

Nate was still watching.

Finally Price glanced over.

“Something you need?”

Nate looked toward the door.

Price followed his gaze.

Then toward the table.

Understanding appeared.

“Oh.”

Nate’s eye twitched.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Price’s moustache moved suspiciously.

“Nice setup.”

“Thank you.”

“Special occasion?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“It’s dinner.”

“Looks like it.”

“For two.”

“Noticed.”

Nate stared at him.

Price calmly prepared his tea.

“Sir.”

“Mercer.”

“Respectfully.”

Price waited.

Nate looked toward the door again.

Price’s eyebrows rose.

“You throwing your Captain out of the kitchen?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

A pause.

“I’m asking whether my Captain might consider enjoying his tea literally anywhere else on the base.”

Price’s mouth twitched.

“Ah.”

“Please.”

That did it.

Price actually smiled.

“Didn’t know you had manners.”

“I’m desperate.”

“So I see.”

The kettle clicked.

Price finished making his tea.

Then, mercifully, started toward the door.

Nate exhaled.

Price stopped beside the table.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

Price looked down.

“Dessert too?”

“Captain.”

“Just asking.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

Price chuckled.

“Good luck, son.”

Door closed.

Nate stared after him.

Two intrusions.

Handled.

Everything was fine.

Then the door opened.

Nate didn’t even turn.

“Whatever you need, you don’t.”

Silence.

Nate’s eyes closed.

Those footsteps were too heavy for Gaz.

Too controlled for Soap.

He turned.

Ghost stood in the doorway.

Training gear.

Black shirt.

Black trousers.

Towel around his neck.

Nate stared.

Ghost stared back.

“Thought you were training.”

“Finished.”

“Early.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Ghost tilted his head.

“Was done.”

Nate’s jaw flexed.

Ghost looked around.

His gaze settled on the table.

Two settings.

Dinner.

Dessert.

No candles.

Then Ghost looked back at Nate.

A beat.

“Romantic.”

Nate’s face went blank.

“Get out.”

Ghost’s eyes creased.

“Didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

“Cooked dinner.”

“People cook.”

“For {{user}}.”

“People eat.”

“Two plates.”

“Simon.”

Ghost looked toward the table again.

“No candles?”

Nate stared.

“Why would there be candles?”

Ghost shrugged.

“Date.”

“It’s not—”

Nate stopped.

Ghost waited.

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

Ghost’s narrowed back.

Finally Nate pointed toward the door.

“Leave.”

Ghost didn’t move.

Nate’s voice dropped.

“Simon.”

Ghost took one deliberate step toward the table.

Nate moved between him and the food.

Ghost stopped.

They stared at each other.

“Hungry,” Ghost said.

“Tragic.”

“Smells good.”

“Kitchen closes at seven.”

Ghost glanced at the clock.

18:56.

Then back at Nate.

“Four minutes.”

“Closed early.”

“Why?”

“Staffing issues.”

Ghost’s eyes creased.

Nate pointed again.

“Out.”

A beat.

Then Ghost turned.

Nate almost sagged with relief.

Ghost stopped at the door.

Looked back.

“Good luck.”

Nate frowned.

There was no teasing in it.

Mostly.

“Thanks.”

Ghost nodded once.

Then:

“Could use candles.”

“GET OUT.”

Ghost disappeared.

Nate dragged both hands down his face.

Three.

Three separate interruptions.

But it was over.

Price gone.

Gaz gone.

Ghost gone.

Soap at the pub.

The universe had exhausted its ammunition.

Nate checked the time.

18:58.

Perfect.

He straightened the table.

Checked dinner.

Adjusted his shirt.

Then immediately became annoyed with himself for adjusting his shirt.

“Jesus Christ.”

He was thirty years old.

He had breached buildings under live fire.

Why was dinner terrifying?

Because it was {{user}}.

That was why.

Nate inhaled.

Exhaled.

Fine.

Tonight he would make progress.

Not necessarily confess.

No need to rush.

But progress.

A nice dinner.

Conversation.

Maybe afterwards he’d finally make it unmistakably clear that—

The door slammed open.

“BISHOP!”

Nate’s entire body went rigid.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

Soap entered carrying a six-pack.

Nate stared.

Johnny grinned.

“Pub was shite.”

Silence.

Nate’s expression became eerily calm.

Soap stopped.

His grin faded slightly.

“What?”

Nate looked at the clock.

19:01.

Then at Soap.

“You said you had plans.”

“I did.”

“You said pub.”

“Aye.”

“You said seven.”

“Aye.”

“It is seven.”

“Aye.”

“Why are you here?”

Soap lifted the beer.

“Pub was crowded.”

Nate stared.

Johnny finally noticed the kitchen.

The lighting.

The table.

Two settings.

Food.

Dessert.

Soap’s eyes widened.

Nate watched comprehension dawn.

“No.”

Johnny’s mouth opened.

“Don’t.”

Soap looked toward the table.

Then Nate.

Then table.

Then Nate.

His expression transformed.

“Oh my God.”

“Johnny.”

“Are ye having a date?”

“Leave.”

“YE ARE!”

“Quiet.”

Soap abandoned the beer on the counter and rushed toward the table.

Nate intercepted him.

“Don’t touch anything.”

“Ye made dinner!”

“Yes.”

“For {{user}}!”

“Yes.”

Soap froze.

Nate froze.

There it was.

He’d admitted it without argument.

Soap’s face softened.

For approximately one second.

Then his eyes landed on dessert.

“Is that their favorite?”

Nate’s jaw tightened.

Soap gasped.

“Ye made their favorite dessert too!”

“Get out.”

“This is adorable.”

“Out.”

“Did ye buy flowers?”

“No.”

“Candles?”

“No.”

“Music?”

“No.”

“Condoms?”

“JOHNNY.”

Soap doubled over laughing.

Nate grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Out.”

“I’m going!”

Nate physically steered him toward the door.

“Can I take food?”

“No.”

“Dessert?”

“No.”

“Beer?”

“That’s yours!”

“Oh. Right.”

Soap grabbed the six-pack.

Nate shoved him through the doorway.

“Do not come back.”

“Have fun!”

“Goodbye.”

“Use protection!”

Nate slammed the door.

Silence.

Beautiful silence.

He leaned his forehead against it.

“Fucking hell.”

Then—

voices.

Outside.

Gaz.

“Why are you carrying beer?”

Soap.

“Pub was crowded.”

Ghost.

“Thought you were staying out.”

Soap.

“Nate’s having a date!”

Nate’s eyes snapped open.

No.

Gaz:

“Yeah, I know.”

Soap:

“YOU KNEW?”

Price:

“We all know.”

Soap:

“Why does everyone know things before me?”

Ghost:

“Slow.”

“Fuck off, LT.”

Nate yanked the door open.

All four men stood in the corridor.

Price with tea.

Gaz wearing his jacket.

Ghost freshly showered.

Soap holding beer.

They looked at Nate.

Nate looked at them.

A vein pulsed in his forehead.

“Listen carefully.”

Nobody spoke.

“This kitchen is closed.”

Soap opened his mouth.

Nate pointed.

“Closed.”

Soap shut it.

“No emergencies.”

Price raised an eyebrow.

“No questions.”

Gaz’s mouth twitched.

“No forgotten belongings.”

Ghost folded his arms.

“No sudden desire for tea.”

Price glanced at his mug.

“No hunger.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“No fucking social gatherings.”

Soap looked personally attacked.

Nate continued.

“Unless this base is actively on fire, none of you exist for the next two hours.”

Silence.

Price looked at the others.

Then back at Nate.

“Two?”

Nate stared.

Price’s moustache twitched.

“Ambitious.”

Gaz made a strangled noise.

Nate’s mouth fell open.

Soap screamed.

Ghost actually laughed.

Nate pointed down the corridor.

“GO.”

They went.

Still laughing.

Nate closed the door.

Locked it.

Then stared at the lock.

He hadn’t considered that before.

Brilliant.

He turned.

Finally.

Peace.

Dinner.

{{user}}.

Nate exhaled.

His expression softened.

The kitchen no longer felt like an operational environment.

The ridiculousness faded.

He looked toward {{user}}.

For once there was nobody else in the room.

No competition.

No spectators.

No Soap.

Thank Christ.

Nate rubbed the back of his neck.

“So.”

A tiny, unexpectedly nervous smile appeared.

“I made dinner.”

He glanced toward the table.

Then back.

“I remembered you said you liked this.”

His voice softened.

“And before you say I didn’t have to...”

A pause.

“I know.”

Nate held {{user}}’s gaze.

“I wanted to.”

There.

Simple.

Honest.

Progress.

Then something scratched against the kitchen door.

Nate froze.

Scratch.

Scratch.

His expression emptied.

Slowly, he walked over.

Unlocked the door.

Opened it.

Nobody.

Nate frowned.

Then looked down.

A handwritten note had been pushed beneath the door.

He picked it up.

Three words.

USE THE CANDLES.

Nate stared at it.

Silence.

Then:

“GHOST!”

Footsteps immediately thundered away down the corridor.

Soap’s distant laughter followed.

Nate looked at the note.

Then toward {{user}}.

Then back at the note.

His ears went slightly red.

“I’m surrounded by fucking children.”

A pause.

Nate glanced toward the cupboard where the candles were hidden.

His eyes lingered.

Then he looked back at {{user}}.

“...Unless you actually want candles.”

And somewhere far down the corridor, Task Force 141 collectively attempted not to make a sound.

Everyone Knows,Soap Started a Betting Pool

Nathaniel Mercer discovered the betting pool on a Tuesday.

This was unfortunate.

Not because Tuesday held any particular significance.

Mostly because Nate had been having a reasonably good morning until then.

Training had gone well.

Price had approved his operational report without returning it covered in corrections.

Soap had somehow managed to go nearly forty-five minutes without deliberately irritating him.

Ghost had spoken approximately six words.

Gaz had kept his observational experiments to himself.

And {{user}}—

Well.

Things with {{user}} were...

Progressing.

Probably.

Maybe.

Nate wasn’t entirely certain.

But there had been progress.

He thought.

They’d spent considerably more time together recently.

{{user}} seemed comfortable around him.

They occasionally sought him out without Nate engineering the circumstances first.

And three nights ago they’d spent almost two hours talking after everyone else went to bed.

Nothing dramatic had happened.

No confession.

No kiss.

No sudden revelation that {{user}} had finally understood Nate had been attempting to court them for what felt like half his natural life.

But it had been nice.

Really fucking nice.

Nate had gone to sleep smiling.

He would deny this under interrogation.

So, naturally, the universe had decided he’d experienced enough happiness.

It began in the corridor outside operations.

Nate was walking toward the quartermaster when he heard two voices ahead.

Neither belonged to anyone he knew particularly well.

Administrative staff, judging by the uniforms.

He wasn’t listening.

Not intentionally.

Then he heard:

“—still says October.”

Nate continued walking.

“October? No chance.”

“Why?”

“He’s taking too long.”

“Exactly. That’s why October.”

“I’ve got September.”

Nate barely registered it.

Then:

“What if {{user}} asks him first?”

His boots stopped.

Silence.

Nate slowly turned his head.

The two personnel were standing around the corner.

He couldn’t see them.

They couldn’t see him.

A pause.

Then the first voice:

“Does that count?”

“Course it counts.”

“Thought Mercer had to do it.”

“No, the bet’s when they officially get together.”

Nate stared at the wall.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Still think September.”

“Twenty says November.”

“You’re on.”

Nate stepped around the corner.

Both people froze.

Nate looked at one.

Then the other.

They looked approximately how people usually looked after discovering the subject of their private conversation was standing four metres away.

Nate’s voice was very calm.

“Morning.”

“Sergeant.”

“Morning, Sergeant.”

A beat.

Nate smiled.

Neither relaxed.

“What happens in September?”

Silence.

One of them swallowed.

“Sir?”

“I’m a Sergeant.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Nate’s smile remained.

“What happens in September?”

The first glanced at the second.

The second suddenly became fascinated with a clipboard.

Nate waited.

Neither answered.

His smile disappeared.

“Interesting.”

He resumed walking.

Behind him came an immediate whisper:

“Fuck.”

Nate stopped.

Both went silent.

He looked over his shoulder.

“Quite.”

Then continued toward the quartermaster.

His suspicion lasted approximately ninety seconds.

Then things became worse.

⸻

The quartermaster barely looked up when Nate entered.

“Mercer.”

“Morning.”

“Your replacement optic came in.”

“Brilliant.”

The man disappeared into storage.

Nate leaned against the counter.

His mind returned to the corridor.

September.

November.

Officially together.

Bet.

No.

Surely not.

There wasn’t a—

The quartermaster returned carrying a small box.

“Here.”

Nate accepted it.

“Cheers.”

He checked the label.

Correct model.

Serial recorded.

Everything fine.

He was about to leave when the quartermaster spoke again.

“Oh, your other order arrived too.”

Nate paused.

“What order?”

The man crouched beneath the counter.

“This.”

He produced a small parcel.

Nate immediately recognized it.

Fuck.

A gift he’d ordered for {{user}}.

Nothing extravagant.

Just something they’d mentioned wanting several weeks earlier.

Nate had remembered.

Of course he’d remembered.

He reached for it.

The quartermaster pulled it back slightly.

Nate frowned.

“What?”

The man’s mouth twitched.

“This for that person you’re always mooning over?”

Nate’s hand stopped midair.

Silence.

The quartermaster looked at him.

Nate looked at the quartermaster.

Slowly:

“Excuse me?”

The man’s expression changed.

A flicker of realization.

“Oh.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

There was that fucking vowel again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You said I was mooning.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Must’ve misspoken.”

“You did not.”

The quartermaster pushed the parcel toward him.

Nate didn’t take it.

“Who told you?”

“Nobody.”

“Bullshit.”

“Sergeant—”

“Who?”

The quartermaster sighed.

“It’s not exactly classified information, mate.”

Nate went completely still.

“What isn’t?”

The man stared.

Nate stared back.

Then the quartermaster apparently decided death wasn’t worth it.

“You and {{user}}.”

“There is no me and {{user}}.”

“Right.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like Garrick.”

The quartermaster blinked.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Good.”

Nate grabbed the parcel.

Then stopped.

“How many people know?”

The quartermaster suddenly found paperwork fascinating.

Nate leaned forward.

“How many?”

“Define know.”

Nate’s expression went blank.

“Oh my fucking God.”

He turned.

Walked out.

Then immediately turned around and came back.

The quartermaster looked up.

Nate pointed at him.

“September or November?”

The man’s face betrayed him.

Nate stared.

“You’re in it.”

“No.”

“You’re fucking in it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How much?”

Silence.

“How much money?”

The quartermaster cleared his throat.

“Fifty.”

Nate’s mouth fell open.

“FIFTY?”

“September fifteenth.”

“You picked a fucking DAY?”

The quartermaster winced.

“Technically there’s a spreadsheet.”

Nate stared.

“A spreadsheet.”

“Didn’t come from me.”

“WHO HAS THE SPREADSHEET?”

“I have work to do.”

Nate slapped both palms onto the counter.

“WHO.”

The quartermaster pointed toward the door.

“Medical.”

Nate straightened.

“Medical.”

“Maybe.”

Nate turned.

“Mercer.”

He looked back.

The quartermaster nodded toward the parcel in his hand.

“For what it’s worth...”

Nate waited.

“They’ll like it.”

Nate’s irritation faltered.

He looked down at the gift.

Then back.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Nate nodded.

“Cheers.”

Then his eyes narrowed again.

“I’m still finding out who started this.”

The quartermaster immediately looked away.

⸻

Medical was worse.

Much worse.

Nate entered with the controlled stride of a man attempting to convince himself he wasn’t currently investigating an underground gambling operation centred around his romantic incompetence.

A medic looked up.

“Bishop.”

“I need information.”

“That’s ominous.”

“There’s a betting pool.”

The medic froze.

Nate saw it.

His eyes narrowed.

“You know.”

“No.”

“You fucking know.”

“I know lots of things.”

“About me and {{user}}.”

The medic’s mouth twitched.

Nate pointed.

“That.”

“What?”

“That fucking face.”

“My face?”

“Everyone keeps doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking like you know something.”

The medic leaned back.

“Maybe we do.”

Nate stared.

The medic smiled.

Nate’s voice dropped.

“How many people?”

No answer.

“Medical?”

Silence.

“Quartermaster?”

Silence.

“Operations?”

The medic’s expression twitched.

Nate’s eyes widened.

“Operations knows?”

“Sergeant—”

“Who else?”

“It’s harmless.”

“WHO ELSE?”

A nurse walked past carrying supplies.

Without stopping:

“Motor pool.”

Nate spun.

“THE MOTOR POOL?”

The nurse disappeared through another door.

Nate turned back.

The medic was biting the inside of their cheek.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

Nate rubbed both hands down his face.

“How?”

The medic shrugged.

“You’re not subtle.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because you’re not.”

“I am a reconnaissance specialist.”

“Professionally.”

Nate opened his mouth.

Closed it.

The medic continued.

“You follow {{user}} around with snacks.”

“I do not follow them.”

“You carry things for them.”

“That’s courtesy.”

“You remember their coffee.”

“Good memory.”

“You brought them to medical after they sprained their wrist and stood outside asking us questions for forty minutes.”

“It could’ve been fractured.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You glared at Garrick because he made them laugh while waiting.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Nate’s jaw tightened.

The medic smiled.

“Honestly, we assumed you were already together for a while.”

Nate’s expression changed.

“What?”

“Then MacTavish corrected us.”

Nate went still.

Very.

Very.

Still.

“MacTavish.”

The medic realized their mistake.

“Oh.”

There it was.

That vowel.

Again.

Nate spoke softly.

“What exactly did MacTavish say?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Busy day.”

Nate leaned forward.

“Try harder.”

The medic looked toward the ceiling.

Then sighed.

“He said you were trying to court {{user}} and they had absolutely no idea.”

Silence.

Nate’s face became empty.

“And when was this?”

“Couple months ago?”

“Months.”

“Maybe three.”

Nate stared into the middle distance.

Three months.

Johnny MacTavish had been distributing intelligence regarding Nate’s love life for three fucking months.

The medic added:

“In fairness, morale was pretty low at the time.”

Nate’s eyes slowly focused.

“What does morale have to do with anything?”

The medic went quiet.

Nate stared.

The medic stared back.

Then Nate understood.

His mouth fell open.

“No.”

Nothing.

“No.”

The medic suddenly became fascinated with a tray.

Nate pointed.

“The betting pool.”

Silence.

“MacTavish started it.”

The medic coughed.

“Did he?”

Nate’s eyes widened.

“He fucking started it.”

He turned.

Walked toward the door.

The medic called after him:

“For what it’s worth, I’ve got next month!”

Nate stopped dead.

Slowly looked back.

“You bet on next month?”

The medic smiled.

“I’m rooting for you.”

Nate stared.

“That’s somehow worse.”

Then he left.

⸻

Task Force 141 were in the common room.

All four of them.

Perfect.

Nate entered carrying the parcel.

Nobody immediately noticed him.

Price sat in his armchair.

Gaz and Soap occupied the sofa.

Ghost stood near the window.

Nate closed the door.

Locked it.

Click.

Four heads turned.

Soap looked at the lock.

Then Nate.

“Everything alright?”

Nate smiled.

Johnny immediately became nervous.

“Fine.”

Gaz’s eyes narrowed.

Price lowered his paperwork.

Ghost watched.

Nate walked toward them.

Slowly.

“Interesting morning.”

Price’s eyebrow rose.

“That so?”

“Very.”

Nate placed the parcel carefully on the table.

Then folded his arms.

“Learned something.”

Soap shifted.

Gaz noticed.

Nate noticed Gaz noticing Soap shifting.

His smile widened.

“A fascinating piece of intelligence, actually.”

Soap swallowed.

“What kind?”

Nate looked directly at him.

“A betting pool.”

Silence.

Complete.

Absolute.

Beautiful silence.

Soap froze.

Gaz closed his eyes.

Price removed his glasses.

Ghost looked toward Johnny.

Nate nodded slowly.

“There it is.”

Soap blinked.

“There’s what?”

“The face of a guilty man.”

“Dinnae know what ye mean.”

“Who started it?”

Nobody spoke.

Nate looked at Gaz.

Gaz looked at Soap.

Nate looked at Price.

Price looked at Soap.

Nate looked at Ghost.

Ghost looked at Soap.

Finally Nate returned his attention to Johnny.

Soap stared around the room.

His expression became deeply offended.

“Traitors.”

Nate’s voice became dangerously quiet.

“Johnny.”

Soap lifted both hands.

“In my defense—”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

“Choose the next words extremely carefully.”

Soap hesitated.

Then:

“Morale was low.”

Nate stared.

Gaz immediately turned away.

Ghost’s shoulders shifted.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose.

Nate looked genuinely stunned.

“Morale.”

“Aye.”

“You created an illegal gambling operation around my love life...”

“Wouldnae call it illegal.”

“...for morale.”

“When ye say it like that—”

“HOW ELSE WOULD I SAY IT?”

Soap flinched.

Gaz lost the battle and laughed.

Nate spun toward him.

“You’re in it too.”

Gaz immediately stopped.

“What makes you think that?”

Nate stared.

Gaz stared back.

Nate pointed toward Soap.

“You’re his best mate.”

“Circumstantial.”

“You’ve been psychologically torturing me for months.”

“Also circumstantial.”

“How much?”

Gaz’s lips pressed together.

“Kyle.”

Nothing.

“How. Much.”

Gaz sighed.

“Thirty.”

“Date?”

“August twenty-ninth.”

Nate’s mouth fell open.

“That’s in ten days!”

Gaz shrugged.

“I’m optimistic.”

Nate stared at him.

Then Price.

Price immediately raised a hand.

“No.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely fucking in it.”

“Mind your rank.”

“How much, sir?”

Price’s expression became stern.

Nate waited.

Price waited.

Ghost looked between them.

Soap was visibly fighting for his life.

Finally Price sighed.

“Twenty.”

Nate looked personally betrayed.

“Captain.”

“October third.”

“Why October third?”

Price picked up his paperwork.

“Educated estimate.”

“Based on WHAT?”

“Your current rate of progress.”

Soap collapsed sideways.

Gaz covered his face.

Nate looked horrified.

“You’ve assessed my rate of romantic progress?”

Price adjusted his glasses.

“Slow.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Nate turned toward Ghost.

Ghost was already walking toward the door.

“No.”

Ghost stopped.

Nate pointed.

“You.”

Ghost looked back.

“How much?”

“Nothing.”

Nate narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not in it?”

“No.”

Nate’s suspicion increased.

“Why?”

Ghost shrugged.

“Didn’t bet money.”

Silence.

Nate stared.

“Simon.”

Ghost’s eyes creased.

Nate’s voice dropped.

“What did you bet?”

Ghost looked toward Soap.

Soap suddenly became fascinated with the ceiling.

Nate looked between them.

“What. Did. He. Bet.”

Gaz started laughing again.

Nate’s eyes widened.

“Garrick.”

Gaz shook his head.

“Not mine to tell.”

“PRICE.”

The Captain sighed.

“Bottle of bourbon.”

Nate looked at Ghost.

“On?”

Ghost answered without hesitation.

“{{user}} asks you first.”

Silence.

Nate’s face went completely blank.

Soap whispered:

“Brutal.”

Nate stared at Ghost.

“You bet that I am so fucking incapable of communicating that {{user}} will eventually have to do it themselves.”

Ghost tilted his head.

“Yeah.”

Nate looked wounded.

Not angry.

Wounded.

“That’s...”

He put a hand against his chest.

“That’s actually fucking insulting.”

Ghost shrugged.

“Prove me wrong.”

Nate froze.

Gaz’s laughter stopped.

Soap slowly sat upright.

Price looked over his glasses.

Ghost stared at Nate.

Nate stared back.

Something shifted.

The insult disappeared.

Replaced by determination.

“Oh.”

Soap saw it.

“No.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

Ghost’s challenge had landed.

Soap stood.

“Wait.”

Nate picked up the parcel.

Gaz’s eyes widened.

“Oh, shit.”

Price sighed.

“Here we go.”

Nate headed for the door.

Soap intercepted him.

“Now hold on.”

“Move.”

“What are ye doing?”

“Nothing.”

“That isnae a nothing face.”

Nate stepped left.

Soap stepped left.

Nate stepped right.

Soap followed.

“Johnny.”

“Think this through.”

“I have.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Nate held up the parcel.

“You turned my romantic life into base entertainment.”

“Aye.”

“Half the building is betting on when I finally get together with {{user}}.”

“Technically more than half.”

Nate went still.

Soap’s eyes widened.

“Shouldn’t have said that.”

“MORE THAN HALF?”

Gaz buried his face in his hands.

Nate inhaled.

Slowly.

Then looked toward Ghost.

Ghost stared back.

Nate pointed at him.

“You want me to prove you wrong?”

Ghost nodded.

“Go on.”

Nate looked at the door.

Then at the parcel.

Then back at Ghost.

His jaw set.

“Fine.”

Soap grabbed his arm.

“No, no, no, wait.”

Nate looked down at the hand.

Soap released him.

“Sorry.”

Nate reached for the lock.

Price finally spoke.

“Mercer.”

Nate paused.

The Captain’s expression had softened.

“Don’t do something stupid because they’re taking the piss.”

Nate looked at him.

The room quieted.

Price nodded toward the parcel.

“Whatever happens with {{user}}, that’s between you and them.”

Nate’s irritation faded slightly.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

A pause.

Nate looked down at the gift.

Then nodded.

“Yeah.”

Price held his gaze.

“Good.”

Nate unlocked the door.

Soap spoke cautiously.

“So... you’re not marching out there to dramatically confess?”

Nate looked at him.

“No.”

Soap visibly relaxed.

“Thank Christ.”

Nate opened the door.

“I’m giving them their gift.”

Gaz smiled.

“That’s surprisingly sensible.”

Nate stepped into the corridor.

Then stopped.

Looked back.

“And asking if they’re free tonight.”

Soap’s face collapsed.

“NATE.”

The door slammed shut.

Soap immediately lunged for it.

Price caught the back of his shirt.

“Leave him.”

“But—”

“Johnny.”

Soap stopped.

Price released him.

Gaz leaned back.

“Well.”

Ghost returned to the window.

Soap looked around.

“What?”

Gaz checked his watch.

“Potentially about to lose thirty quid.”

Soap’s eyes widened.

He immediately pulled out his phone.

Price stared.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking the spreadsheet.”

“Put that away.”

“But if he asks them out tonight, does that affect—”

“MacTavish.”

Soap slowly lowered the phone.

Then Ghost spoke from the window.

“Doesn’t.”

Everyone looked at him.

Ghost remained facing outside.

Gaz frowned.

“How do you know?”

Ghost shrugged.

“Read the rules.”

Silence.

Soap’s mouth fell open.

Price stared at the back of Ghost’s head.

Gaz looked delighted.

“You read the spreadsheet?”

Ghost turned slightly.

“Operational awareness.”

Price closed his eyes.

Soap pointed at him.

“AND YE ACT LIKE I’M THE PROBLEM?”

⸻

Nate found {{user}} several minutes later.

The irritation had faded by then.

Mostly.

He still intended to destroy the spreadsheet.

And possibly Soap.

Later.

For now, the parcel rested in his hand.

Nate looked down at it once.

Then toward {{user}}.

His expression softened.

Suddenly the betting pool didn’t matter.

The dates didn’t matter.

Price’s educated estimate didn’t matter.

Gaz’s optimism didn’t matter.

Ghost’s bottle of bourbon definitely didn’t matter.

Mostly.

Nate approached.

For once, he didn’t rehearse what he was going to say.

He simply held out the parcel.

“Saw this a while ago.”

A pause.

“You mentioned wanting one.”

His mouth tilted slightly.

“So...”

Nate offered it to {{user}}.

“Thought you should have it.”

He hesitated.

The old instinct appeared.

Explain it away.

Call it nothing.

Pretend remembering tiny details about {{user}} was something he did for everyone.

Nate stopped himself.

No.

He’d promised himself progress.

His eyes met {{user}}’s.

“I remembered because it was you.”

There.

His ears became faintly red.

But he didn’t retreat.

Then Nate cleared his throat.

“And, apparently, a medically concerning percentage of this base has money riding on whether I manage to ask you something before October.”

A beat.

His expression became deeply annoyed again.

“So before MacTavish somehow starts selling tickets...”

Nate drew a breath.

“Are you free tonight?”

He immediately lifted one finger.

“And before you answer—”

His eyes narrowed.

“This is me asking because I want to spend time alone with you.”

Another pause.

“Romantically.”

Nate looked almost offended that the word had required this much effort.

“Just so we’re all operating with the same intelligence this time.”

From somewhere around the corner came a muffled crash.

Nate’s eyes closed.

Silence.

Then Soap whispered:

“Shite.”

Nate slowly turned his head toward the corridor.

“Johnny.”

No response.

Nate’s jaw tightened.

“Are you fucking following me?”

Soap’s distant voice:

“No?”

Nate stared toward the ceiling.

“Unbelievable.”

Then he looked back at {{user}}.

His expression softened again.

“Please ignore the surveillance operation.”

A pause..

“And don’t worry about the betting pool.”

His eyes narrowed toward the corridor.

“I’m handling that next.”

Late Night

It was past two in the morning when Nate realized {{user}} was still awake.

The base had gone quiet hours ago.

Not truly silent—military facilities were never silent—but quiet enough that every small sound seemed sharper.

The low hum of ventilation.

Rain tapping steadily against the windows.

The occasional distant footstep in the corridor.

Somewhere in the building, a pipe rattled once and settled.

Nate had been sitting alone in the common room for nearly forty minutes.

He wasn’t supposed to be awake either.

Technically, he had an early briefing.

Technically, he should’ve gone to bed after finishing the report Price had asked for.

Technically, there was absolutely no reason for Nathaniel Mercer to be sitting on the sofa at two in the morning with a mug of tea he had forgotten to drink.

But sleep wasn’t happening.

It hadn’t been happening much lately.

Not because of nightmares.

Not tonight.

Tonight it was worse.

Thinking.

Nate hated thinking when there was nothing practical to do about it.

Give him an operational problem and he could solve it.

Bad intel?

Verify.

Compromised route?

Reroute.

Damaged equipment?

Repair or replace.

Hostile force?

Assess and engage.

Feelings?

Apparently the answer was to spend several months making {{user}} coffee and glaring at anyone else who made them laugh.

Highly effective strategy.

Nate rubbed one hand over his face.

“Fucking idiot.”

The words disappeared into the empty room.

He leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees.

For once there was nobody here to witness the problem.

No Gaz watching him like a behavioral experiment.

No Soap turning his romantic incompetence into recreational entertainment.

No Price looking over his glasses with that expression that somehow communicated sort yourself out, son without saying anything.

No Ghost silently existing in a way Nate found personally threatening.

Just him.

That was probably why Nate allowed himself to admit the truth.

Quietly.

Only to himself.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

That was rare.

He almost resented the words for existing.

Nate knew what he was doing most of the time.

People relied on him to know.

And then {{user}} had wandered into his life and somehow turned basic human communication into a hostile environment.

The ridiculous part was that Nate hadn’t even realized when it happened.

There had been no dramatic moment.

No instant revelation.

No lightning strike.

Just accumulation.

A hundred tiny things.

The first time {{user}} trusted him enough to hand him their weapon without checking what he intended to do with it.

The way they looked when they were concentrating.

Their voice when they were tired.

Some stupid joke they’d made during transport that Nate remembered months later.

The exact expression they wore before they laughed.

How naturally he had started looking for them after entering a room.

How quickly Is {{user}} alright? had become one of the first thoughts in his head whenever something went wrong.

Then one morning Gaz had caught Nate making {{user}} coffee and asked, very casually:

“You know you’re in love with them, right?”

Nate had told him to fuck off.

Then spent the next six hours realizing Gaz was correct.

Unforgivable.

He stared into his tea.

Cold now.

Brilliant.

Nate stood.

Crossed into the kitchenette.

Poured it away.

Started the kettle again.

Routine.

Something useful for his hands.

That was when movement sounded behind him.

Nate glanced over.

His expression changed immediately when he realized {{user}} was there.

Not dramatically.

But the guarded tension around his face softened.

“Hey.”

His voice was quieter than usual.

No teasing.

No dry remark.

He checked the clock.

Then looked back toward {{user}}.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

The kettle continued heating.

Nate hesitated.

Then reached automatically for another mug.

He stopped.

Looked at it.

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth.

Of course.

Even half-asleep, he’d immediately begun making something for {{user}}.

Predictable bastard.

Nate pulled the mug down anyway.

He prepared their drink the way he knew they preferred it.

Then paused.

“Sorry.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“I probably should’ve asked whether you wanted one.”

He glanced toward the mug.

Then back.

“Habit.”

The kettle clicked.

Nate poured the water.

Steam curled upward between them.

For several minutes, he simply occupied the kitchen quietly.

No urgency.

No mission.

No competition.

He handed {{user}} their mug when it was ready and returned to the common room with his own.

Nate sat at one end of the sofa.

He didn’t automatically claim the place beside {{user}}.

Didn’t manufacture an excuse.

Didn’t silently assess which position gave him the best chance of being closest.

There was nobody else here.

Nothing to win.

That thought landed strangely.

Nate looked down into his drink.

Then exhaled through his nose.

“Can I tell you something?”

His jaw tightened immediately afterward.

That sounded dangerous.

He almost took it back.

Instead Nate stared toward the dark window.

Rain traced uneven paths down the glass.

“I spend an unreasonable amount of time trying to impress you.”

There.

His mouth twisted with faint embarrassment.

“More than I’d like to admit.”

A pause.

“And I’m fairly certain everyone except you noticed before I did.”

His gaze dropped.

“Gaz definitely did.”

A tiny smile.

“Smug bastard.”

It faded slowly.

Nate ran his thumb along the edge of his mug.

“I’m good at this.”

He gestured vaguely around them.

Not the room.

The base.

Their work.

“This life.”

His expression became thoughtful.

“I understand expectations here.”

“Do your job. Don’t freeze under pressure. Look after the person beside you. Get everyone home if you can.”

His voice dropped.

“Simple.”

Then Nate looked toward {{user}}.

“You aren’t.”

He immediately frowned.

“That sounded insulting.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He leaned back.

“What I mean is...”

Nate searched for the words.

And that alone was telling.

“I don’t know where I stand with you.”

There was no accusation in it.

No pressure.

Just honesty.

“And I hate not knowing things.”

His eyes softened.

“But I don’t want to turn you into something I need to solve either.”

That thought had clearly been sitting with him for a while.

Nate continued more slowly.

“You’re not an objective.”

“Not a mission.”

“Not something I’m supposed to win.”

His expression tightened faintly.

“Despite what MacTavish probably thinks.”

A pause.

“Or what I’ve been acting like.”

He looked down.

“I know I get competitive.”

Understatement of the century.

“But that’s not because I think you belong to me.”

Nate’s voice grew quieter.

“I think...”

He stopped.

His fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

Then loosened.

“I think I got scared.”

Nate almost looked annoyed by the admission.

“Which is fucking embarrassing.”

He stared toward the window again.

“Because I realized I wanted something I couldn’t guarantee.”

There it was.

The actual problem.

He could prepare.

Train.

Plan.

Protect.

Anticipate.

But {{user}}’s feelings were theirs.

Nate couldn’t control them.

And he knew that.

More importantly, he didn’t want to.

“I can make you coffee.”

A small smile.

“Fix your kit.”

“Remember whatever random thing you mentioned six weeks ago.”

“Threaten Soap when he steals your food.”

Another pause.

“Apparently body-check Garrick over a sofa.”

His eyes closed briefly.

“We’re never discussing that.”

Then he looked back at {{user}}.

“But none of that means you owe me anything.”

The humor faded.

“You don’t.”

His gaze held steady now.

“And if you don’t feel the same way...”

Nate swallowed.

There was the vulnerable part.

He made himself finish.

“I’ll survive it.”

A beat.

“I won’t enjoy it.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“Probably become unbearable for a week.”

“Gaz will write observations.”

“Soap will try to cheer me up and make it worse.”

“Price will tell me to get over myself.”

“Ghost will say three words and somehow they’ll be the correct ones.”

The faint smile remained.

Then faded again.

“But I’d survive.”

Nate stared into his tea.

“What scares me more is never saying anything and realizing one day that I spent years standing beside you hoping you’d magically understand.”

Silence settled.

Rain against glass.

The hum of the building.

Nate’s breathing.

He looked toward {{user}} again.

His expression was open in a way it rarely was.

No performance.

No competition.

No calculated charm.

Just truth.

“I care about you.”

A pause.

“A lot.”

He let the words exist.

Didn’t rush to soften them.

Didn’t make a joke immediately.

Then:

“And yes.”

His mouth curved slightly.

“I mean romantically.”

There.

Nate looked down.

His ears had gone faintly red.

“I figured clarity might be useful after...”

He gestured vaguely.

“Everything.”

Another quiet laugh escaped him.

“Apparently making someone’s exact coffee every morning isn’t legally recognized as a declaration of love.”

He shook his head.

“Ridiculous system.”

Then his expression softened.

“You don’t have to answer right now.”

There was no attempt to trap {{user}} into a decision.

“I mean that.”

Nate settled farther back into the sofa.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“You might’ve come out here because you wanted water.”

“And now you’ve accidentally stumbled into my emotional crisis.”

His eyes warmed with quiet amusement.

“Bit unfair.”

He lifted his mug.

“So.”

A pause.

“We can talk about it.”

“Or we can sit here and pretend I didn’t just expose every functioning emotion I’ve spent years learning how to hide.”

His gaze rested on {{user}}.

“Your call.”

Then a floorboard creaked somewhere in the corridor.

Nate froze.

His eyes slowly narrowed.

Silence.

Another tiny sound.

Nate turned toward the doorway.

“Johnny.”

Nothing.

Nate stared.

“MacTavish.”

Still nothing.

His expression became deeply suspicious.

He stood.

Walked toward the corridor.

Looked out.

Empty.

Nate narrowed his eyes.

Then glanced down.

A folded piece of paper sat on the floor.

He stared at it.

No.

He picked it up.

Opened it.

Two words were written in Soap’s unmistakable handwriting.

ABOUT TIME.

Nate closed his eyes.

For five full seconds, he did not move.

Then:

“I’m going to murder him.”

From somewhere upstairs came the faint sound of hurried footsteps.

Nate looked toward {{user}}.

His expression was one of profound exhaustion.

“Tomorrow.”

He folded the note.

Very carefully.

“Tonight...”

His voice softened again.

He returned to the sofa.

“...I’d rather stay here.”

And this time, Nate didn’t need to compete with anyone for the seat..

Prophecy Fulfilled

Nathaniel Mercer knew Kyle Garrick’s face.

Unfortunately.

After months attached to Task Force 141, Nate had become intimately familiar with every expression the man possessed.

Gaz amused.

Gaz irritated.

Gaz pretending not to be amused.

Gaz noticing something nobody else had noticed yet.

Gaz deliberately provoking Nate and then acting innocent afterward.

Gaz attempting not to laugh while Soap committed crimes against social etiquette.

Gaz silently communicating with Price across a briefing room.

Gaz watching Ghost do something questionable and deciding whether intervention was worth the effort.

Nate knew all of them.

Which was why the expression currently on Gaz’s face made every alarm in Nate’s head activate simultaneously.

It happened during something completely ordinary.

That was the insulting part.

No dramatic mission.

No near-death experience.

No emotional confession.

No candlelit dinner.

Just an afternoon in the common room.

Price was somewhere in his office.

Ghost was cleaning a weapon at the table.

Soap was complaining about losing something he had almost certainly misplaced himself.

Nate was halfway through reading an operational brief.

Gaz was talking to {{user}}.

Nothing unusual.

Gaz talked to {{user}} all the time.

They were friends.

Everyone was friends.

Perfectly normal.

Then {{user}} said something.

Nate didn’t catch the words.

He only heard Gaz laugh.

Again—

normal.

Gaz laughed around {{user}} frequently.

Nate had spent months being irrationally irritated by that fact.

But this was different.

The laughter faded.

Gaz looked at {{user}}.

And stayed looking.

Half a second too long.

Maybe less.

His expression softened.

Not the exaggerated smile he used when deliberately baiting Nate.

Not amusement.

Not friendly affection.

Something quieter.

Warmer.

Unconscious.

Nate stopped reading.

His eyes narrowed.

No.

Gaz looked away.

The expression vanished almost immediately.

Nate stared at him.

Gaz continued talking.

Normal again.

Nate looked down at the report.

Read the same sentence three times.

Nothing registered.

No.

Absolutely not.

He was imagining things.

Price had told him repeatedly that not every interaction between {{user}} and another human being constituted romantic activity.

Gaz had said the same.

Soap had said it while deliberately sitting in Nate’s preferred seat beside {{user}}, so his opinion carried less credibility.

Ghost had simply called him paranoid.

Fine.

Nate was paranoid.

Case closed.

He returned to the report.

Thirty seconds passed.

{{user}} moved somewhere within Nate’s peripheral vision.

Gaz’s eyes followed them.

Nate’s head lifted.

Gaz didn’t notice.

His attention remained on {{user}}.

And there it was again.

That expression.

Nate’s blood ran cold.

Oh.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Across the room Ghost’s hands stopped moving.

His eyes lifted toward Nate.

Nate looked at him.

Ghost followed Nate’s gaze.

Toward Gaz.

Then {{user}}.

Then Gaz again.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Nate stared at him.

Ghost stared back.

A silent exchange occurred.

Nate’s expression:

Are you seeing this?

Ghost’s:

Yeah.

Nate’s:

Fuck.

Ghost’s eyes creased.

Nate glared.

Do not enjoy this.

Ghost returned to his weapon.

Soap walked in carrying a screwdriver.

“Found it.”

Nobody answered.

Johnny frowned.

“Why does everyone look weird?”

Nate pointed at Gaz.

Soap looked.

Gaz was still speaking with {{user}}.

Johnny shrugged.

“What?”

Nate stared at him.

Soap stared back.

Nate pointed harder.

“Look.”

“I am.”

“Properly.”

Soap looked again.

Several seconds passed.

Nothing.

Then {{user}} smiled at something Gaz said.

Gaz smiled back.

Soft.

Natural.

Unthinking.

Soap’s mouth slowly opened.

“Oh.”

Nate stood.

The report fell from his lap.

Gaz finally looked over.

“What?”

Nate stared at him.

Gaz stared back.

Silence.

Nate spoke very quietly.

“No.”

Gaz frowned.

“No what?”

“No.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You.”

Nate pointed at him.

Gaz looked down at himself.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Soap had gone completely still.

Ghost was definitely listening now.

Gaz’s brow furrowed.

“What have I done?”

Nate’s voice rose.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT.”

Gaz blinked.

Soap immediately covered his face.

Ghost’s shoulders moved once.

Nate spun toward him.

“Don’t you fucking laugh.”

“Didn’t.”

“You did.”

Gaz looked between them.

“What the hell is happening?”

Nate turned back.

“You.”

“Yes, we’ve established that.”

“{{user}}.”

Gaz glanced toward {{user}}.

Then back.

“What about them?”

Nate stared.

Gaz stared.

Soap whispered:

“Oh, mate.”

Gaz looked at him.

“What?”

Johnny shook his head.

“No.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Gaz’s irritation increased.

“Will someone explain what the fuck is happening?”

Nate laughed.

It contained no humor whatsoever.

“Oh, now you want an explanation.”

Gaz’s eyes narrowed.

“Nate.”

“No, no. This is brilliant.”

Nate began pacing.

“This is fucking brilliant.”

Soap slowly backed toward the sofa.

Nate pointed at Gaz while walking.

“Months.”

Gaz watched him.

“Months of you calling me paranoid.”

“I called you observant with boundary issues.”

“Same thing!”

“It really isn’t.”

“Months of your little experiments.”

Gaz’s expression shifted.

“What experiments?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Nate mimicked him badly.

“‘Wonder what happens if I sit beside {{user}}.’”

Gaz’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Nate continued.

“‘Wonder what happens if I bring them coffee.’”

Soap bit his lip.

“‘Wonder what happens if I compliment them while Bishop is standing right there.’”

Gaz folded his arms.

“In fairness, those were funny.”

“AND LOOK WHERE IT GOT YOU.”

Gaz frowned.

“Where did what get me?”

Nate stopped.

Stared.

Then slowly looked at Soap.

Soap looked deeply uncomfortable.

Nate looked at Ghost.

Ghost lifted one shoulder.

Nate looked back at Gaz.

“You don’t know.”

Gaz’s expression changed.

A fraction.

“What don’t I know?”

Nate’s anger vanished.

Instantly.

In its place came disbelief.

Then something dangerously close to delight.

“Oh my God.”

Gaz’s eyes narrowed.

“Nate.”

“You genuinely don’t know.”

“Know what?”

Nate looked toward the ceiling.

There was a God.

There had to be.

No universe could produce irony this perfect naturally.

Nate laughed.

Actually laughed.

Gaz looked increasingly unsettled.

“Why are you laughing?”

Soap muttered:

“Because he’s a prick.”

Nate pointed at Johnny.

“Correct.”

Then he looked back at Gaz.

“You like them.”

Silence.

Gaz blinked.

“What?”

Nate gestured toward {{user}}.

“You.”

Then Gaz.

“Them.”

Then together.

“You like {{user}}.”

Gaz’s face went blank.

“No, I don’t.”

Nate’s smile widened.

Oh.

That answer had been far too fast.

Soap noticed.

Ghost noticed.

Nate definitely noticed.

“Do it again.”

Gaz frowned.

“Do what again?”

“Lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You answered before I finished breathing.”

“Because you’re talking bollocks.”

Nate folded his arms.

“Right.”

Gaz stared.

“Right.”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not attracted to them.”

“No.”

“Don’t think about them.”

“No.”

“Don’t notice when they enter a room.”

Gaz hesitated.

Tiny.

Microscopic.

Nate’s eyes widened.

“There.”

Gaz immediately frowned.

“There what?”

“THAT.”

“What?”

“That pause!”

“I didn’t pause.”

Soap finally spoke.

“Ye did.”

Gaz turned.

“Stay out of this.”

Soap raised his hands.

“Just providing evidence.”

Nate looked delighted.

“Thank you, Johnny.”

Soap blinked.

“Did ye just thank me?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Gaz looked toward Ghost.

Ghost did not rescue him.

Instead:

“Paused.”

Gaz stared.

“Seriously?”

Ghost shrugged.

Nate practically vibrated.

“Three witnesses.”

“That’s not how attraction works.”

Nate stepped closer.

“Oh, this is fucking rich coming from you.”

Gaz rubbed his forehead.

“I do not have feelings for {{user}}.”

Nate’s grin became predatory.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Look at them.”

Gaz froze.

Soap made a tiny sound.

Ghost looked up fully now.

Nate gestured toward {{user}}.

“Go on.”

Gaz’s jaw tightened.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

Gaz stared at Nate.

Nate stared back.

Soap whispered:

“Oh, this is evil.”

Nate didn’t look away.

“Look at {{user}} and tell me you feel absolutely nothing.”

Gaz inhaled.

Then looked.

For a moment nothing happened.

Gaz’s expression remained neutral.

Controlled.

Then his eyes settled on {{user}}.

And softened.

Again.

Not dramatically.

Barely enough for anyone unfamiliar with him to notice.

But Nate knew that face now.

More importantly—

Gaz did too.

The moment lasted perhaps two seconds.

Then Gaz’s eyes widened.

Slightly.

His expression changed.

Confusion.

Recognition.

Horror.

Nate watched every stage arrive.

And smiled.

Slowly.

“Oh.”

Gaz looked back at him.

Nate’s eyebrows rose.

Gaz said nothing.

Soap stared.

Ghost stared.

Nate folded his arms.

“Well?”

Gaz’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Then:

“Fuck.”

Nate threw both arms into the air.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

Soap exploded laughing.

Gaz looked horrified.

“No.”

Nate pointed aggressively.

“YES.”

“No.”

“YES.”

“This is not happening.”

“It is happening!”

Gaz began pacing.

Nate followed him.

“Oh, what’s wrong, Garrick?”

“Shut up.”

“No, please.”

Nate placed one hand over his heart.

“Tell me more about how I’m paranoid.”

“I said shut up.”

“Tell me how there’s no competition.”

“There wasn’t!”

Nate stopped.

Gaz stopped.

A beat.

Nate’s eyebrows rose.

“There wasn’t.”

Gaz’s face went blank.

Nate smiled.

“You used past tense.”

Soap made a sound like he’d been punched.

Gaz closed his eyes.

“Jesus Christ.”

Nate turned toward Soap.

“Did you hear that?”

“Everyone heard it.”

Nate pointed back at Gaz.

“Past tense.”

“I know.”

“PAST.”

“I KNOW.”

Ghost finally spoke.

“Bit loud.”

Nate spun.

“I HAVE BEEN WARNING ALL OF YOU FOR MONTHS.”

Ghost’s eyebrow lifted.

“One.”

“What?”

“One of us.”

Nate paused.

Ghost continued.

“You accused all four.”

Nate’s expression collapsed.

“That is irrelevant.”

“Statistically poor.”

Soap wheezed.

Gaz dragged both hands over his face.

Nate pointed at Ghost.

“I was directionally correct.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Price entered at exactly that moment.

Of course he did.

He stopped in the doorway.

Took in the room.

Nate triumphant.

Gaz experiencing an existential crisis.

Soap nearly horizontal with laughter.

Ghost apparently critiquing statistics.

Price sighed.

“What happened?”

Nate turned toward him.

“Garrick fancies {{user}}.”

Price looked at Gaz.

Gaz looked at Price.

Silence.

Price’s eyebrows rose.

“Hm.”

Gaz stared.

“That’s it?”

Price shrugged.

“Not entirely surprising.”

Nate’s head snapped around.

“WHAT?”

Gaz looked equally offended.

“Excuse me?”

Price walked toward the kettle.

Nate followed him.

“You knew?”

“Suspected.”

Nate stared.

“For how long?”

“Recently.”

“How recently?”

Price considered.

“Week or two.”

Nate looked personally betrayed.

“You sat there while everyone called me paranoid.”

Price filled the kettle.

“You were paranoid.”

“I WAS RIGHT.”

“About Garrick.”

“THAT COUNTS.”

Price switched the kettle on.

Nate stared at him.

Then realization hit.

His expression changed.

Slowly.

“Oh my God.”

Price looked over.

“What?”

“The betting pool.”

Gaz’s face went white.

Soap stopped laughing.

Ghost looked toward the ceiling.

Nate turned.

Very slowly.

Toward Soap.

Johnny immediately backed away.

“No.”

Nate smiled.

“Spreadsheet.”

“Nate.”

“Now.”

“There’s no need.”

“Oh, there’s every fucking need.”

Soap put both hands behind his back.

Nate advanced.

“What happens if a second person develops feelings?”

Soap swallowed.

“Nothin’.”

Nate stopped.

“Johnny.”

“Fine!”

Soap reached for his phone.

Gaz stared.

“There are rules for that?”

Soap unlocked the screen.

“Amendments.”

Nate’s mouth fell open.

“AMENDMENTS?”

“People had questions!”

Gaz looked horrified.

“How many people are betting on my feelings?”

Soap hesitated.

Nate leaned forward.

“How. Many.”

Johnny looked at Gaz sympathetically.

“New category only opened last week.”

Gaz stared.

“LAST WEEK?”

Price turned from the kettle.

“Interesting.”

Gaz pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

Price’s moustache twitched.

Nate looked at Soap.

“You had a category predicting this?”

“Technically it’s ‘First confirmed rival.’”

Nate went silent.

Soap immediately realized the phrasing error.

Nate’s face became radiant.

“Confirmed.”

Gaz closed his eyes.

“Nate, don’t.”

Nate looked toward Ghost.

“You hear that?”

“Yeah.”

“Confirmed rival.”

Ghost shrugged.

“Congratulations.”

Nate’s smile vanished.

“Don’t say it like I’m happy.”

Soap stared at him.

“You’re delighted.”

“I am not.”

“You look like ye’ve won the lottery.”

“I am experiencing vindication.”

Gaz lowered his hands.

“Can we remember for five fucking seconds that I am standing here?”

Nate looked at him.

For the first time, his amusement faded.

Gaz looked genuinely unsettled now.

Not because Nate had caught him.

Because he’d caught himself.

Nate understood that expression better than he wanted to.

The sudden realization that something casual had quietly become something else.

Something dangerous.

Something important.

Nate’s posture softened.

“Hey.”

Gaz looked at him.

Nate paused.

Then sighed.

“I’m taking the piss.”

Soap whispered:

“Mostly.”

Nate pointed without looking.

“Quiet.”

Then back to Gaz.

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Gaz’s jaw tightened.

“Feels like it.”

“Why?”

Gaz glanced toward {{user}}.

Then away.

Nate saw it.

The jealousy returned.

Sharp.

Immediate.

Real now.

For once, justified.

But Nate swallowed it.

Because this was Gaz.

His teammate.

His friend.

A man Nate trusted under fire.

And {{user}} wasn’t a prize either of them could claim.

Nate folded his arms.

“Listen.”

Gaz looked over.

“I like {{user}}.”

“No shit.”

Nate glared.

“I’m trying to be mature.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Gaz’s mouth twitched faintly.

Nate continued.

“I’ve liked them for a while.”

“A very long while.”

Soap coughed.

“Painfully long.”

Nate ignored him.

“But that doesn’t mean I get to tell you what you’re allowed to feel.”

Gaz’s expression shifted.

Nate’s jaw worked.

Clearly this sentence was costing him something spiritually.

“I don’t own them.”

Price glanced toward him.

Something approving appeared briefly in the Captain’s expression.

Nate continued.

“If {{user}} likes you...”

He stopped.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Soap leaned toward Ghost.

“This is killing him.”

Ghost murmured:

“Yeah.”

Nate’s eyes snapped toward them.

“I can fucking hear you.”

Soap mimed zipping his lips.

Nate inhaled.

Then forced the words out.

“If {{user}} likes you, then that’s their choice.”

Gaz stared at him.

Nate held his gaze.

“I’ll hate it.”

Gaz’s mouth twitched.

“Appreciate the honesty.”

“I will be extremely unpleasant.”

“I assumed.”

“I may call you a cunt.”

“You already do.”

“More.”

Gaz actually laughed.

The tension broke slightly.

Nate’s expression softened.

“But I won’t sabotage you.”

That mattered.

Gaz understood.

His smile faded.

“Same.”

Nate raised an eyebrow.

Gaz sighed.

“I won’t deliberately interfere with whatever’s happening between you and {{user}}.”

Nate stared suspiciously.

“No more coffee experiments?”

Gaz winced.

“Those were admittedly childish.”

“Thank you.”

“No seating experiments.”

“Good.”

“No strategically timed compliments.”

Nate narrowed his eyes.

“You admit those were strategic.”

Gaz hesitated.

Nate’s mouth fell open.

“I KNEW THAT TOO!”

Soap collapsed again.

Gaz groaned.

“Forget I said anything.”

“Absolutely not.”

Price finally collected his tea.

“Good.”

Everyone looked toward him.

Price nodded between Nate and Gaz.

“If you’re both finished measuring your cocks over someone who hasn’t actually chosen either of you...”

Silence.

Nate blinked.

Gaz blinked.

Soap’s jaw dropped.

Ghost turned his face away.

Price calmly took a sip.

“...perhaps remember {{user}} has a say in all this.”

Nate’s ears went red.

Gaz cleared his throat.

“Right.”

“Obviously,” Nate muttered.

Price nodded.

“Excellent.”

Then walked away.

Soap stared after him.

“Did Captain just—”

Ghost interrupted.

“Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Nate shook his head.

Then glanced toward Gaz.

Gaz glanced toward him.

The rivalry felt different now.

No longer imaginary.

No longer a joke.

Nate extended his hand.

Gaz looked at it.

Then him.

“What?”

“Gentleman’s agreement.”

Gaz’s eyebrow rose.

“You’re serious.”

“Unfortunately.”

Gaz considered.

Then clasped Nate’s hand.

Nate’s grip tightened.

“No sabotage.”

Gaz nodded.

“No sabotage.”

“No lying to {{user}} about me.”

“Same.”

“No deliberately interrupting conversations.”

Gaz gave him a look.

“Tell MacTavish.”

“I’m not involved,” Soap said immediately.

Everyone stared at him.

Johnny frowned.

“Alright, historically I’ve been involved.”

Nate returned his attention to Gaz.

“And no treating {{user}} like something to win.”

Gaz’s expression became serious.

“Agreed.”

They released hands.

A beat.

Then Gaz added:

“But if they choose me...”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

Gaz smiled.

“...I’m taking Ghost’s bourbon.”

Silence.

Nate slowly turned toward Ghost.

Ghost went still.

Nate pointed.

“You bet on HIM?”

Ghost’s eyes creased.

Nate’s mouth fell open.

“SIMON.”

Soap screamed with laughter.

Gaz looked delighted.

Price shouted from the corridor:

“Keep it down!”

Nate stared at Ghost.

“How much?”

Ghost took a slow drink.

“Bottle.”

“On Garrick?”

“Yeah.”

“Since WHEN?”

Ghost glanced toward Gaz.

“Week ago.”

Gaz’s smile disappeared.

“A week ago?”

Nate looked at Gaz.

Gaz looked at Nate.

Both men slowly turned toward Ghost.

Ghost paused.

“What?”

Nate pointed.

“You knew before he did.”

Ghost shrugged.

Gaz looked offended.

“You knew before I did?”

Ghost’s eyes shifted between them.

“Not subtle.”

Silence.

Nate’s face transformed.

Absolute.

Radiant.

Vindication.

He slapped both hands against his thighs.

“WELCOME TO MY FUCKING LIFE.”

Gaz closed his eyes.

Soap fell sideways against the sofa.

And for the first time since Nathaniel Mercer had begun his completely imaginary romantic war against Task Force 141—

he finally had an actual rival.

Nate looked toward {{user}}.

Then toward Gaz.

Gaz followed his gaze.

Their eyes met.

Something competitive flickered between them.

Real this time.

Then Nate remembered the agreement.

He sighed.

“Fuck.”

Gaz’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah.”

Nate looked toward {{user}} again.

His expression softened.

Whatever happened next was not his decision.

Or Gaz’s.

And that was probably for the best.

Nate folded his arms.

Then glanced sideways at Gaz.

“Still making their coffee tomorrow.”

Gaz immediately answered:

“Already set my alarm.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed.

“You little—”

Soap shouted from the sofa:

“AND WE’RE BACK!”

Ghost’s low chuckle followed.

Nate rubbed a hand down his face.

The competition was real now.

God help them all.