Task Force 141 + Bishop | Fated

There You Are

Monday morning at Task Force 141 began like most Monday mornings: too early, inadequately caffeinated, and accompanied by Soap complaining about something nobody else considered a problem. Price stood at the head of the briefing table with a personnel file open beneath one hand while Ghost occupied his usual position near the wall, Gaz nursed a coffee, and Bishop reviewed the morning’s intelligence packet. Lizzie had taken the chair beside Soap before anyone arrived, cheerfully informing the room she’d brought pastries because “someone had to keep the boys fed.” Ghost hadn’t acknowledged that. Price had thanked her automatically. Nate had taken a pastry because it was there.

“We’ve got a new operator joining us,” Price announced, silencing Soap with a look. “Transfer’s already cleared. Good record, strong recommendations, and before any of you start—” his eyes landed specifically on Johnny, “—you’ll give them five bloody minutes before making yourselves a nuisance.”

Soap looked wounded. “Why’re you looking at me?”

Gaz took a drink. “Pattern recognition.”

Bishop glanced up. “Accurate.”

The briefing-room door opened.

Price stopped speaking.

It wasn’t dramatic. John Price had spent too many years controlling himself for dramatic reactions. But his fingers tightened around the personnel file, his shoulders went rigid, and the powerful Enigma presence he normally kept leashed surged once through the room before being brutally forced back under control.

Ghost straightened against the wall.

Soap’s pen slipped from his fingers and hit the table.

Gaz froze with his coffee halfway to his mouth.

Nate looked up sharply, first at Price, then Ghost, Soap, and Gaz, instantly recognizing that four experienced operators had somehow malfunctioned simultaneously.

“What the hell is—”

Then {{user}} stepped fully into the room.

Their scent reached him.

Bishop stopped.

Oh.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Every instinct Nate possessed had apparently reached the same conclusion before his rational mind could begin objecting. Awareness snapped toward {{user}} with startling precision: presence, scent, distance, heartbeat suddenly faster than it had been five seconds ago. Protective instinct followed so quickly that Nate’s expression tightened in irritation.

He looked at Price.

Price looked at him.

Gaz slowly lowered his coffee.

Soap whispered, “No fucking way.”

Ghost’s response was considerably less enthusiastic. “Fuck.”

Lizzie looked between them.

Her smile disappeared.

Price recovered first. Of course he did. “Right.” He closed {{user}}’s personnel file with deliberate calm and drew one slow breath. “This was not in the bloody recruitment packet.”

Soap made a sound suspiciously close to laughter. “Captain—”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“Johnny.”

Soap physically pressed his lips together, though the enormous grin threatening to break through suggested the order had only partially succeeded.

{{user}} was still standing near the doorway, having arrived for what should have been an ordinary introduction to a new unit and instead walked into five grown men staring at them like reality had abruptly rewritten itself.

Price noticed.

His expression hardened—not toward {{user}}, but toward his team.

“Everyone get a grip.”

Ghost folded his arms. “Got one.”

“You’ve nearly put yourself through the wall, Simon.”

Ghost glanced behind himself as though only now noticing he’d retreated another step.

Gaz coughed into his fist.

Nate, meanwhile, had gone unnaturally quiet.

He was analyzing.

Elevated pulse. Heightened scent recognition. Immediate awareness. Protective response. Four simultaneous reactions from individuals representing three different secondary genders. Statistically absurd unless—

Price caught his expression.

“Mercer.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed. “I’m processing.”

“Process faster.”

“I dislike the obvious conclusion.”

Soap finally lost the battle and grinned. “They’re our mate.”

Silence.

There it was.

Lizzie went completely still.

Price’s gaze snapped toward Soap before immediately returning to {{user}}. “And that,” he said firmly, “doesn’t give any of us permission to do a damn thing.”

The room settled.

Price stepped back from the table, deliberately creating space rather than closing it. “You came here as an operator. That’s what you’ll be treated as. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, you get a say in it.”

Gaz nodded. Nate did too after a moment. Soap’s expression sobered despite his obvious excitement. Ghost remained near the wall, watching {{user}} with an intensity he seemed actively annoyed by.

Then Lizzie laughed.

It was just slightly too bright.

“Wow. That’s...” Her gaze moved over {{user}} before returning to the men. “That’s crazy.”

Nobody answered.

Lizzie stood and approached with a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m Lizzie. Don’t worry, they’re really not as intimidating as they look. I’ve been dealing with these boys for months.” She gave a playful little sigh. “You’ll get used to them.”

Bishop’s attention shifted toward her.

Dealing with?

Odd wording.

He filed it away without knowing why.

Lizzie gestured toward the table. “Come sit. I can tell you who’s who and help you figure everything out.”

Nate looked toward the chair beside him.

Empty.

Before he consciously considered the action, he moved his notebook out of the way.

“There’s a seat here.”

Five heads turned toward him.

Nate froze.

Soap’s grin returned with catastrophic speed.

Bishop looked at the empty chair.

Then at his own hand still resting protectively beside it.

Then at {{user}}.

“...It’s strategically positioned.”

Gaz closed his eyes.

Ghost made a quiet sound that might actually have been a laugh.

Price rubbed his forehead.

Lizzie stared at the chair.

And Nate Mercer, approximately four minutes into knowing his fated mate, discovered he was apparently already making room for them.

Don’t Mistake It For Interest

A week into {{user}}’s assignment, Task Force 141 had achieved something resembling normalcy. Price had stopped looking like he was personally wrestling his Enigma instincts into submission every time {{user}} entered a room. Ghost no longer retreated three steps whenever their scent reached him—usually only one. Soap had been explicitly forbidden from referring to anything as “mate bonding activities” after attempting to classify a pub night under that category. Gaz remained irritatingly well-adjusted, and Bishop had abandoned his original attempt to document every bond response after Price discovered the notebook and informed him, with considerable amusement, that attraction was not a medical condition.

Lizzie had been helpful through all of it. Almost aggressively so.

She caught {{user}} alone after training, falling into step beside them with an easy smile. “You’re settling in pretty well.” Her tone was friendly, conspiratorial. “I figured I should probably warn you about a few things, though. The boys won’t tell you themselves.”

She started with Price. Apparently, the Captain hated clinginess and needed more space than most Enigmas. Ghost, according to Lizzie, became irritated when people approached him without invitation. Soap was affectionate with everybody and supposedly lost interest just as quickly as he gained it. Gaz flirted naturally, so {{user}} shouldn’t read too much into his attention. Each warning sounded reasonable enough on its own, wrapped carefully in the authority of someone who claimed months of experience with them.

Then she reached Bishop.

“And Nate...” Lizzie gave a soft laugh. “He’s observant with everyone. Seriously, don’t mistake it for interest. He remembered my coffee order after hearing it once. That’s just Bishop.”

Behind them, footsteps stopped.

Lizzie didn’t notice.

“He’s sweet,” she continued, “but I wouldn’t want you getting the wrong idea because of the bond. You’ve probably noticed him watching you and saving you seats and everything. He does things like that.”

“No, I don’t.”

Lizzie froze.

Bishop stood several feet behind them, fresh from the range, sleeves pushed up and hearing protection hanging around his neck. His expression wasn’t angry. If anything, the calm curiosity on his face was considerably worse.

Lizzie recovered quickly. “Nate! I didn’t hear you.”

“Clearly.”

She laughed. “I was just helping {{user}} understand everyone.”

“So I gathered.”

Bishop approached, gaze briefly meeting {{user}}‘s before returning to Lizzie. “You said I remember everyone’s coffee.”

“You remember everything.”

“Not everything.”

Lizzie’s smile faltered.

Nate tilted his head slightly. “What’s Sergeant Hall’s order?”

“What?”

“Hall. Logistics. Been here eleven months.”

Lizzie stared.

Nate continued mildly, “Or Evans from communications? We speak most mornings. No idea how she takes hers.” His eyes shifted toward {{user}}. “I know yours.”

Silence.

“And I don’t save seats for everyone.”

There was no flirtation in his delivery. Just an inconvenient correction of the facts.

Lizzie’s scent sharpened almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just don’t want {{user}} getting overwhelmed and thinking every little thing is because they’re your mate.”

Something in Nate’s expression changed.

“That’s fair.”

Lizzie relaxed.

Then Bishop added, “But perhaps let us explain our own behavior.”

The smile disappeared again.

Nate wasn’t accusing her. There was nothing to accuse her of. She had offered advice, some of it arguably reasonable. Still, something about the conversation bothered him—the certainty with which she’d spoken for five people who hadn’t asked her to.

He filed it away.

Lizzie gave {{user}} another bright smile. “Of course. I was only trying to help.”

“I know,” Nate replied.

She left a moment later.

Bishop watched until she disappeared around the corner before turning toward {{user}}. For several seconds he said nothing.

Then he rubbed the back of his neck.

“For clarification...”

His professional composure suddenly looked considerably less secure.

“I do notice you more than everyone else.”

A pause.

“Significantly more.”

His eyes narrowed as though annoyed by his own admission.

“And the seat thing is apparently real.”

Another beat.

“But Price does value personal space, Ghost may genuinely bite if approached before coffee, Soap’s attention span is questionable, and Gaz absolutely is a shameless flirt, so she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

From somewhere down the corridor came Gaz’s voice.

“I heard that, Mercer.”

Nate didn’t even turn.

“Good.”

Then his attention settled back on {{user}}, expression softening.

“If you want to know something about me, ask me.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“I’ll try to provide data without charts.”

Eight O’Clock

At 0800, {{user}} walked into Task Force 141’s training facility expecting a morning session.

Instead, they found the aftermath of one.

Targets were already riddled with holes, spent casings littered the floor, and Soap was stripping down his rifle while Gaz recorded scores. Ghost stood near the equipment racks, Bishop was toweling sweat from the back of his neck, and Price looked up from his tablet the moment the door opened.

His expression hardened.

“You’re an hour late.”

The room quieted.

Price didn’t shout. Somehow that made it worse. Whatever the mate bond meant outside training, Captain John Price clearly had no intention of allowing it to excuse professional mistakes. “Session started at zero-seven-hundred. You were expected here with everyone else.”

{{user}} explained.

Price’s brow furrowed. “Who told you it changed?”

Before anyone could say more, Lizzie appeared from the adjoining corridor carrying two coffees. She slowed when she noticed the tension. “What’s wrong?”

Price answered. “{{user}} says they were told training moved to eight.”

Lizzie blinked.

Then looked toward {{user}}.

“Oh my God.” Her face fell with immediate concern. “No, I said seven. Remember? Yesterday? I told you Price wanted everyone here early.”

Silence.

Lizzie stepped closer, sympathy filling her expression. “You must’ve misunderstood me. I’m so sorry. I would’ve messaged if I’d known.”

The bond reacted before logic did. Soap frowned. Ghost went still. Price’s Enigma instincts visibly strained against the scent of tension in the room—but he controlled them.

He looked at {{user}}, then Lizzie.

“We’re not deciding this based on instinct.”

His voice was calm.

“We establish what happened.”

Lizzie nodded eagerly. “Of course.”

Gaz slowly lowered the tablet in his hand.

“Hang on.”

Everyone looked at him.

Kyle frowned, thinking. “Yesterday outside the mess. You were talking to {{user}} about training.”

Lizzie smiled with visible relief. “Exactly.”

Gaz didn’t return it.

“I heard you say something about eight.”

Her expression flickered.

“I probably said I’d see them after eight.”

Gaz’s brow furrowed. “Maybe.”

Not certainty.

Not proof.

Then Nate spoke.

“No.”

Bishop had gone completely still.

Lizzie looked toward him. “What?”

Nate dropped the towel onto the bench. “You said, ‘See you at eight tomorrow.’”

The room became very quiet.

Lizzie stared at him.

“You can’t possibly remember the exact wording of some random conversation.”

Soap’s mouth tightened.

Gaz glanced toward Bishop.

That had been the wrong argument to use on Nathaniel Mercer.

Nate’s expression remained neutral. “You were standing beside the vending machines. {{user}} had just asked whether the session was still at seven. You said Price changed it and told them you’d see them at eight.”

Lizzie’s scent sharpened.

“No, Nate. I said—”

“I remember what you said.”

Not angry.

Not accusatory.

Certain.

Price’s gaze moved between them.

Lizzie gave an uneasy laugh. “Okay, maybe I mixed up the time. God, I’m human. I can make mistakes.” She looked toward {{user}}, embarrassment replacing defensiveness with impressive speed. “I’m sorry. I genuinely thought it changed.”

And there it was.

A plausible explanation.

Price held her gaze for several seconds before nodding once. “Then next time, don’t pass along schedule changes unless they’ve come through command.”

Lizzie swallowed. “Understood.”

Price turned toward {{user}}. “And you verify operational schedules through official channels. Doesn’t matter who tells you otherwise. Clear?”

Fair.

Equal.

Professional.

The matter should have ended there.

For everyone except Bishop, perhaps it did.

Training resumed. Soap started arguing with Gaz about scores. Price returned to his tablet. Ghost disappeared toward the locker room. Lizzie apologized to {{user}} once more before leaving.

Nate remained beside the bench.

His eyes followed her through the door.

One inaccurate characterization last week.

One incorrect training time today.

Individually?

Nothing.

People misspoke. People remembered things incorrectly. Coincidences happened.

Bishop knew that better than most.

Still, he reached for the small notebook tucked inside his kit.

Gaz noticed.

“What’re you writing?”

Nate paused.

Then wrote the date.

“Nothing yet.”

Gaz looked toward the door Lizzie had just disappeared through.

Then back at Bishop.

“Yet?”

Nate closed the notebook.

“Exactly.”

Again

Three weeks into {{user}}’s assignment, Ghost had developed a problem.

He was pulling his punches.

Not enough for anyone inexperienced to notice. Simon Riley was far too skilled for something that obvious. He still corrected {{user}} sharply during drills, swept their legs when an opening appeared, and offered exactly zero sympathy when they made mistakes. But whenever training became genuinely aggressive, something changed. A strike stopped slightly short. A takedown became suspiciously controlled. His grip loosened half a second earlier than it did with Soap or Gaz.

{{user}} noticed.

Unfortunately for Ghost, so did Bishop.

Nate stood beside the mat with his arms folded while Ghost released {{user}} from another hold considerably more gently than necessary. “You’re doing it again.”

Ghost’s head snapped toward him. “Doing what?”

“Pulling your punches.”

“I’m not.”

Soap barked a laugh from the bench. Gaz suddenly became fascinated by his water bottle.

Ghost stared at Nate. “Want to come demonstrate?”

“Not particularly.”

“Coward.”

“Observant coward.”

Price, watching from nearby, sighed. “Either spar or start a book club.”

Ghost turned back toward {{user}}.

That was when {{user}} called him on it too.

The gym went quiet.

Simon stared at them for several seconds, jaw shifting beneath the mask. “I’m training you.”

{{user}} disagreed.

Apparently rather strongly.

Soap whispered, “Oh, this’ll go well.”

Gaz elbowed him.

The challenge landed exactly where {{user}} intended: if Ghost didn’t believe they could handle him, he needed to say it. If he did, then he needed to stop treating them differently because of the bond.

Ghost went completely still.

There it was.

Not fear of hurting an inexperienced recruit.

Instinct.

Mate.

Protect.

Don’t hurt.

Simon visibly hated realizing his biology had been making decisions on his behalf.

“Fine.”

He rolled his shoulders once.

“No bond. No special treatment. You tap, I stop. I tap, you stop.”

Price’s voice came from behind them. “And neither of you turns my training room into an emergency ward.”

“Aye,” Ghost muttered.

The next exchange was entirely different.

Ghost came in fast. {{user}} met him properly this time. Boots scraped across the mat as attacks were blocked, redirected, countered. Simon’s size gave him an advantage; {{user}}’s technique refused to let him keep it easily. He caught them once, nearly forced them down, lost the hold, recovered—

Then {{user}} found the opening.

Ghost hit the mat.

Hard.

Silence.

Soap’s mouth dropped open.

Gaz slowly lowered his bottle.

Nate’s eyebrows rose.

Price’s mustache twitched.

Ghost lay flat on his back staring at the ceiling.

Nobody moved.

Soap finally whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

Ghost’s head turned toward {{user}}.

For one terrible second, Soap looked prepared to intervene before either mate instinct or wounded pride caused an international incident.

Instead, Ghost laughed.

It was low and startled, almost disbelieving.

“Again.”

Soap blinked. “What?”

Ghost pushed himself upright. “Didn’t speak to you, Johnny.”

He stood and faced {{user}} again. Something fundamental had changed. The careful distance he’d maintained for weeks was still there, but the irritating fragility he’d unconsciously assigned to {{user}} had vanished.

Ghost offered his hand.

“Again.”

From beside the mat, Nate glanced toward Price. “He’s enjoying this.”

Price folded his arms. “Good.”

Soap looked personally betrayed. “They just flattened Ghost and nobody’s discussing it?”

Gaz patted his shoulder. “We’re all processing.”

Bishop’s mouth twitched. “Some of us faster than others.”

Ghost ignored them.

His attention remained entirely on {{user}}.

“Come on, then.”

His dark eyes sharpened with something that hadn’t been there before—not merely instinctive recognition, but genuine professional respect.

“Show me it wasn’t luck.”

Soap Said

By {{user}}’s fourth week with Task Force 141, Soap had developed a routine.

If {{user}} was in the mess at breakfast, Johnny somehow ended up there too. If they were heading toward the range, he usually appeared with ammunition and an enthusiastic suggestion that they make the session competitive. Movie nights became “bond-building exercises” until Price threatened to ban the phrase entirely, and Soap had recently discovered that making {{user}} laugh produced an embarrassingly obvious burst of pleased Alpha scent that Gaz had begun mocking without mercy.

Then {{user}} started avoiding him.

Johnny noticed immediately.

At first, he assumed they wanted space. The bond was complicated, five mates were overwhelming, and Price had drilled one rule into all of them: {{user}} didn’t owe anyone access. So Soap backed off.

Two days became four.

Four became six.

By day seven, Johnny looked like someone had kicked his dog.

Gaz finally lowered his coffee. “Ask them.”

“Maybe they need space.”

“Then they’ll tell you.”

Soap frowned. “What if I did something?”

“Then they’ll tell you that too.”

From across the table, Ghost muttered, “Christ, MacTavish. Talk to them.”

Soap glared. “You’re giving relationship advice now?”

“No. I’m begging you to stop sulking.”

Bishop turned a page in his book. “Seconded.”

That afternoon, Soap finally found {{user}} alone near the equipment room. He didn’t crowd them. Didn’t touch. He simply stopped several feet away, unusually subdued.

“Have I done something?”

Whatever answer he expected, it wasn’t the one he received.

His expression changed.

“Lizzie told you what?”

{{user}} explained: Lizzie had approached them the previous week, apologetic and reluctant, saying Johnny had privately admitted the mate bond was becoming too much. That {{user}} was always around him. That Soap felt smothered but was too kind to say anything directly. Lizzie had supposedly debated whether to interfere before deciding {{user}} deserved to know.

Soap stared.

“I never said that.”

No smile. No joke.

“I’ve never even thought that.”

Footsteps approached behind him. Gaz and Bishop rounded the corner mid-conversation and stopped when they saw Soap’s face.

Gaz frowned. “What’s happened?”

Johnny looked toward them. “Lizzie told {{user}} I complained about them following me around.”

Nate went still.

“When?”

“Apparently I told Lizzie Tuesday night.”

Gaz’s expression changed immediately.

“Tuesday?”

Soap nodded.

Kyle looked at Bishop.

Bishop was already thinking.

“We weren’t here Tuesday night,” Gaz said.

{{user}} looked toward him.

“Johnny and I were at the Brecon training site. Left Tuesday morning. Came back Wednesday afternoon.”

Soap’s jaw tightened. “Lizzie wasn’t there.”

Silence.

Bishop reached slowly toward the pocket containing his notebook.

Soap noticed.

“You’ve got something else.”

It wasn’t a question.

Nate hesitated.

“Possibly.”

“Nate.”

Bishop exhaled and opened the notebook. “Incorrect training time three weeks ago. She initially claimed you misunderstood her until Garrick and I independently remembered otherwise.”

Soap frowned.

Gaz folded his arms.

Nate continued. “Before that, she told {{user}} I behaved this attentively toward everyone. Factually inaccurate, but hardly significant on its own.”

Johnny stared at the pages.

“And now she’s lying about me.”

“Now,” Bishop corrected quietly, “we have a statement that appears impossible.”

The difference mattered.

This wasn’t strange wording.

This wasn’t a schedule mistake.

Lizzie had attributed a conversation to Soap on a night when Soap had been more than a hundred miles away.

Johnny’s scent shifted sharply with anger before he forced it back under control.

“She made {{user}} think I didn’t want them around.”

Gaz’s expression hardened. “Looks that way.”

Soap turned toward {{user}}.

Whatever fury he felt toward Lizzie disappeared from his face for a moment.

“You’ve spent a bloody week staying away from me because you thought that’s what I wanted.”

There was genuine hurt in his voice—not accusation toward {{user}}, but realization.

“Christ.”

Johnny rubbed both hands over his face.

Then he looked at {{user}} again.

“I don’t want you following me around because fate says you should. I don’t want anything from you because some bond decided we’re compatible.” His voice softened. “But I do like being around you. That’s me. Not the Alpha. Not the bond. Me.”

Bishop quietly closed his notebook.

Gaz looked down the corridor.

Soap followed his gaze.

His expression hardened again.

“We’re telling Price.”

Nate nodded.

“Yes.”

Soap started walking.

Bishop caught his shoulder.

“Johnny.”

Soap stopped.

“Facts first.”

“She lied.”

“Yes. About this, we can demonstrate that.” Nate’s voice remained calm. “We don’t know why yet.”

Soap’s jaw worked.

“You seriously think this could still be innocent?”

Bishop looked down at the notebook.

Three incidents.

One now demonstrably false.

“No.”

His expression changed.

“I think we need to find out how much else isn’t.”

Nobody Touch Them

The week after the Lizzie situation came to Price’s attention was exhausting for everyone, though nobody discussed the investigation openly. Between training, intelligence briefings, an overnight reconnaissance exercise, and the increasingly complicated reality of five highly trained men attempting to navigate one shared fated bond without behaving like complete idiots, sleep had become something of a luxury. By Friday evening, Task Force 141 had collectively abandoned any attempt at productivity and migrated into the common room. Soap and Gaz were arguing over a film, Ghost occupied an armchair with a book, Bishop had a notebook balanced against one knee, and Price was pretending the paperwork in his lap justified remaining awake.

{{user}} had taken one end of the sofa.

At some point, they fell asleep.

Nobody noticed immediately.

Gaz noticed first when he asked {{user}} something and received no answer. His eyes shifted toward the sofa, and a small smile appeared. “They’re out.”

Five heads turned.

Price looked up. Ghost lowered his book. Soap immediately softened. Bishop’s attention snapped toward {{user}} with such automatic precision that Gaz noticed and wisely chose not to comment.

For approximately ten seconds, peace reigned.

Then Soap stood.

Ghost’s voice came from the armchair.

“Don’t.”

Johnny stopped. “What?”

“Leave ’em.”

“I’m getting a blanket.”

“There’s one behind you.”

Soap turned.

There was, in fact, a blanket behind him.

“Right.”

He picked it up and approached the sofa.

Nate looked up from his notebook. “Careful.”

Soap stared at him. “I’m putting a blanket on them, not defusing a bomb.”

“You’ve woken them twice this week.”

“Once.”

“Twice.”

“When was the second?”

“Transport back from the range.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“They were asleep. You woke them. It counts.”

Gaz covered his mouth.

Price slowly lowered his paperwork. “Are you two seriously arguing over blanket deployment?”

“No,” Nate and Soap answered simultaneously.

Ghost snorted.

Soap finally draped the blanket carefully over {{user}} and returned to his seat looking absurdly pleased with himself.

The matter should have ended there.

Twenty minutes later, Price glanced at the clock.

“They can’t sleep there all night.”

Silence.

Soap looked toward {{user}}.

Gaz looked toward Soap.

Nate looked toward Price.

Ghost didn’t look up from his book.

“Wake them,” Price said.

Nobody moved.

John’s eyes narrowed.

“One of you.”

Still nothing.

These were men who had breached fortified buildings, jumped from aircraft, exchanged gunfire with terrorists, and voluntarily entered situations most sane people would flee.

Apparently waking their sleeping fated mate was where courage died.

Price stared at them.

“Unbelievable.”

Soap cleared his throat. “Could carry them.”

Five different instincts reacted to that suggestion at once.

Ghost’s book lowered.

Bishop’s pen stopped.

Gaz’s eyebrows rose.

Price’s Enigma scent sharpened before he immediately controlled it.

Soap looked around.

“...Or not.”

Nate sighed. “We don’t pick them up while they’re unconscious unless necessary.”

Soap frowned. “I wasn’t going to throw them over my shoulder.”

“Still.”

Gaz nodded toward the sofa. “He’s right. Just wake them and let them decide.”

Everyone looked at Gaz.

Kyle blinked.

“What?”

Ghost gestured toward {{user}}. “Go on, then.”

“Why me?”

“Your idea.”

Gaz stared at him. “Coward.”

“Yep.”

Price pinched the bridge of his nose.

“For God’s sake.”

He stood, crossed the room, then stopped beside the sofa.

And hesitated.

Soap’s grin appeared instantly.

“Oh, this is brilliant.”

Price turned his head slowly. “Johnny.”

“Captain.”

“Not another word.”

Price looked back toward {{user}}, expression softening despite himself. His hand lifted, then stopped before making contact.

He reconsidered.

Instead, John crouched beside the sofa.

“{{user}}.”

Nothing.

His voice softened.

“Love, wake up.”

The room went dead silent.

Price froze.

Soap’s eyes became enormous.

Gaz looked abruptly fascinated.

Bishop slowly lowered his notebook.

Ghost’s shoulders began shaking.

Price closed his eyes.

“No.”

Soap made a strangled noise.

“Not one bloody word.”

That destroyed whatever restraint remained.

Gaz laughed first. Ghost followed with a low, unmistakable chuckle. Soap practically folded in half. Even Nate’s mouth twitched as he looked down at his notebook.

Price pointed at him.

“Mercer, if you write that down—”

Nate immediately closed it.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You already did.”

“No evidence.”

Price muttered something deeply uncharitable beneath his breath before returning his attention to {{user}}.

His voice was considerably more careful this time.

“{{user}}. Wake up when you’re ready. These idiots are apparently incapable of behaving themselves.”

Behind him, Ghost murmured, “Love.”

Soap wheezed.

Price’s head dropped.

And Bishop quietly decided this might be the best Friday evening he’d had in months.

Bias

Lizzie waited until {{user}} was away from base before requesting a private meeting with Price. That alone wasn’t unusual. What caught John’s attention was how carefully composed she seemed when she entered his office—no tears, no dramatic accusations, just an Omega asking to discuss what she described as a growing problem within the team.

“I feel like everyone assumes the worst of me now,” Lizzie said quietly. “Ever since the misunderstanding with Soap, it’s like I’m being watched.”

Price leaned back. “You told {{user}} MacTavish said something he couldn’t have told you.”

“I got the day wrong.”

“Three times.”

Her jaw tightened. “That’s exactly what I mean. Before {{user}} arrived, nobody analyzed every mistake I made.” Lizzie hesitated, then delivered the argument she’d clearly rehearsed. “Captain...have you considered that the bond might be affecting your judgment?”

Price went completely still.

It was, unfortunately, a fair question.

He was an Enigma bonded to a subordinate. Four members of his team shared that same connection. Their instincts reacted when {{user}} was distressed, injured, frightened, or threatened. Price had spent weeks ensuring the bond didn’t compromise professional boundaries, but believing himself immune to bias simply because he was aware of it would be arrogance.

“Yes,” he said.

Lizzie blinked.

Price reached for his phone. “Which is why we’re going to remove opinion from the equation.”

Twenty minutes later, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Bishop were seated around the briefing table. Lizzie occupied one side. {{user}} was still absent. Price deliberately intended to keep it that way until he knew whether there was anything they actually needed to answer for.

“This isn’t a tribunal,” Price said. “And nobody’s deciding anything based on mate instinct. Lizzie has raised a concern that our bond with {{user}} may be influencing how we’re interpreting recent events.”

Soap opened his mouth.

“Don’t.”

Johnny closed it.

Price looked toward Bishop. “Your notebook.”

Nate hesitated. “Captain—”

“The facts, Mercer. Not conclusions.”

Bishop placed it on the table.

Price began with the training incident. Official schedule: 0700. Lizzie had told {{user}} 0800. Gaz had independently remembered hearing eight. Bishop remembered the full conversation.

“Could’ve been a mistake,” Price concluded.

Nate nodded. “Agreed.”

Next came Soap.

Lizzie claimed she’d confused the day.

Price checked the training logs.

Soap and Gaz had been in Brecon from Tuesday morning until Wednesday afternoon. Lizzie had remained on base. There was no opportunity for the conversation she originally described.

Lizzie folded her arms. “I already admitted I got the day wrong.”

Price remained calm. “Then we’re checking the other days.”

Her scent shifted.

Ghost noticed.

Bishop noticed Ghost noticing.

Price continued.

Thursday didn’t work either. Soap had spent the evening with Price and two other operators during an after-action review.

Friday?

Soap had been with Ghost.

Saturday?

Gaz produced a message from Lizzie herself saying she hadn’t seen Johnny all weekend.

The room became quiet.

Soap’s expression lost the last trace of humor.

Price looked toward Lizzie. “When did he tell you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You remembered well enough to tell {{user}} what he supposedly said.”

Lizzie’s face flushed. “You’re interrogating me.”

“No.” Price’s voice stayed level. “I’m verifying your complaint.”

She stared at him.

“You said we might be biased.”

John folded his hands.

“So I’m checking the evidence.”

Silence.

Lizzie looked toward Soap. “Say something.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “I already did. I never said it.”

Her attention snapped toward Gaz, then Bishop.

Neither helped her.

Finally she looked toward Ghost.

Simon had barely moved throughout the entire meeting.

“You’re all choosing {{user}}.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed.

“No.”

His voice was quiet.

“We’re choosing what happened.”

That landed harder.

Price closed the file. “At this point, I can establish that you gave {{user}} incorrect training information and later changed your account of it. I can establish that you attributed statements to Sergeant MacTavish that he denies making, and you’ve been unable to provide a consistent time when that conversation occurred.”

Lizzie’s eyes shone. “So what, I’m a liar now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Price’s expression hardened slightly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Bishop’s gaze lifted at that.

There.

Something about the phrasing bothered him.

Putting words in people’s mouths.

Soap.

Nate.

Perhaps others?

His hand moved toward his notebook before he stopped himself.

Lizzie stood abruptly. “Can I go?”

Price considered her for a moment. “Yes.”

She reached the door.

“Lizzie.”

She stopped.

“Until this is resolved, you don’t relay schedule changes, operational instructions, or messages to {{user}}. Anything professional goes through official channels.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Fine.”

The door shut behind her.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Soap exhaled. “That went well.”

Gaz stared at him. “Did it?”

“No.”

Ghost looked toward Bishop.

Nate had opened his notebook again.

“How many?” Simon asked.

Price’s gaze sharpened.

Bishop didn’t immediately answer.

Instead, he turned back several pages.

“More than I thought.”

Price leaned forward.

“Then find out.”

Nate looked up.

“Quietly?”

“Quietly.”

Ghost pushed away from the wall.

“I’ll help.”

Gaz sighed and stood. “So will I.”

Soap frowned. “And me.”

Price looked around at four members of one of the world’s most capable special-operations units preparing to investigate what had begun as interpersonal drama.

“No assumptions,” he warned. “No witch hunt. If she’s done nothing else, that’s what we find.”

Bishop nodded.

“And if she has?”

Price’s expression went cold.

“Then we find that too.”

Fourth-Seven Seconds

The operation had been clean for twenty-six minutes.

Task Force 141 had split into two elements inside an industrial complex being used as a weapons-transfer hub. Price, Soap, and Gaz were clearing the western structure while Ghost, Bishop, and {{user}} moved through the eastern wing toward extraction. Back at the temporary command post, Lizzie worked alongside the intelligence-support team, monitoring surveillance feeds and relaying updated movement reports. Price had prohibited her from passing unofficial information to {{user}}, but tonight she was operating in an assigned communications role. Professional. Monitored. Nothing should have gone wrong.

Then the update arrived.

EASTERN EXTRACTION COMPROMISED. MULTIPLE HOSTILES. TEAM TWO REROUTE WEST.

Lizzie read it.

Her eyes flicked toward the tactical display.

Ghost and Bishop were one corridor behind {{user}}, covering the rear while {{user}} approached the eastern junction.

She should have transmitted immediately.

Instead, Lizzie hesitated.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone.

That was what she would tell herself later.

She only wanted {{user}} to miss an update. Thirty seconds, perhaps. Long enough for someone else to repeat it. Long enough for Price to ask why the newest recruit wasn’t following instructions. One mistake on an otherwise perfect record. One tiny reminder that fate didn’t make {{user}} infallible.

The communications system recorded Lizzie acknowledging receipt.

Then nothing.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

{{user}} reached the junction.

Ghost’s voice came over comms. “Moving up.”

Bishop checked the rear corridor. “Clear.”

Forty-seven seconds after Lizzie received the warning, gunfire exploded through the eastern wing.

Everything happened at once.

“CONTACT!”

Ghost’s voice tore across comms.

Then the bond hit.

Price stopped dead halfway through issuing an order, one hand slamming against the table beside him as pain ripped through the fated connection.

Soap staggered.

Gaz sucked in a breath.

Bishop physically flinched in the corridor.

Ghost made a sound that barely sounded human.

{{user}} had been hit.

“{{user}}!” Nate was moving before the echo of the shots died, Bishop’s training wrestling violently against Alpha instinct as he rounded the corner behind Ghost. “Status!”

More gunfire.

Ghost returned it with terrifying precision while Nate reached {{user}} and dropped beside them. Blood was already spreading across their gear.

For one fraction of a second, Bishop froze.

Mate.

Blood.

Pain.

Protect.

His instincts screamed so loudly he nearly couldn’t think.

Then Nathaniel Mercer forced them down.

“Look at me.” His hands moved efficiently, locating the wound and applying pressure. “Stay with me. Ghost, I need that corridor.”

“Got it.”

Price’s voice erupted over comms. “Team Two, report!”

“{{user}}’s hit,” Bishop answered. “Need immediate extraction.”

Soap swore.

Gaz was already moving. “Western route’s open. Ninety seconds.”

“Too bloody long,” Ghost snarled.

“It’ll have to do,” Price snapped. “Mercer, keep them stable. Simon, cover. We’re coming to you.”

Nate pressed harder against the wound. His gloves became slick.

“Come on. Stay with me.”

His voice was quieter now.

Not Bishop.

Nate.

“Don’t you dare make me explain to Price how I lost you after three weeks of him lecturing us about professional competence.”

The attempt at humor was terrible.

He knew it.

He kept talking anyway.

Then Ghost’s voice cut through the corridor.

“Why weren’t we warned?”

Nate looked up.

Simon had reached the junction and spotted the hostile positions.

There was no reason intelligence shouldn’t have seen them.

No reason an updated threat report shouldn’t have reached the team.

Bishop’s expression changed.

“Later.”

Extraction came in violence and controlled chaos. Soap and Gaz reached them from the west, Price seconds behind. Gaz took over covering fire. Soap dropped beside {{user}} with panic flashing across his face before training replaced it. Price assessed the blood, the corridor, and his team in a single glance.

“Move.”

They did.

Only after {{user}} was transferred into the medical evacuation vehicle did Price allow himself to stop.

Soap stood beside the doors staring at the blood on Nate’s gloves.

Ghost had gone unnaturally silent.

Gaz was already asking command for the intelligence timeline.

Bishop looked toward the tactical tablet.

“Give me the comms log.”

Price’s eyes narrowed. “Mercer.”

“The eastern route was compromised before we reached it.”

Gaz looked up from his headset.

“He’s right. Threat update came through before contact.”

Nate’s stomach dropped.

“How long?”

Kyle’s expression changed as he read.

“Forty-seven seconds.”

Silence.

Soap stared at him. “What?”

“The command post received the warning forty-seven seconds before {{user}} was hit.”

Ghost turned slowly.

“Who acknowledged it?”

Nobody answered immediately.

Then Gaz looked toward Price.

“Elizabeth.”

Soap’s face went blank.

Nate didn’t move.

Forty-seven seconds.

Plenty of time.

More than enough.

Price’s Enigma presence surged hard enough that everyone nearby instinctively straightened before he forced it back under control.

“Was it transmitted?”

Gaz checked.

“No.”

Ghost’s voice became frighteningly quiet.

“Why?”

Price looked toward the vehicle carrying {{user}} away.

Then back toward his team.

“We don’t know.”

Soap stepped forward. “Captain—”

“We. Don’t. Know.”

Price’s voice cracked like a gunshot.

It stopped everyone.

“We establish facts before accusations. Garrick, preserve every communications log. Mercer, build the timeline. Ghost, you give me exactly what happened from the moment you entered that wing. Johnny, medical. Stay with {{user}} if they’ll have you.”

Soap nodded immediately.

Price’s eyes settled on Nate.

“And Mercer?”

Bishop looked down at his blood-covered gloves.

The notebook suddenly felt very heavy inside his vest.

Wrong training time.

A fabricated conversation.

Contradictions.

Manipulation.

And now forty-seven missing seconds.

Nate’s expression went cold.

“I know.”

Price held his gaze.

“Everything.”

Bishop nodded once.

“Everything.”

Miles away, at the command post, Lizzie sat perfectly still in front of a communications console.

On the screen was the message she’d acknowledged.

Beside it, the timestamp.

Forty-seven seconds.

She hadn’t wanted {{user}} shot.

She hadn’t wanted anyone dead.

She had only wanted them to make a mistake.

And for the first time since {{user}} arrived, Lizzie wasn’t wondering how to get her place beside Task Force 141 back.

She was wondering what would happen when Bishop started counting.

I’ve Got It

The doctors said {{user}} would recover.

That sentence was the only reason Task Force 141 remained remotely functional.

The round had done damage, enough to require surgery and several weeks away from active duty, but it hadn’t struck anything immediately fatal. Price had listened to the physician’s explanation without moving. Soap had asked approximately twelve questions. Gaz had remembered the answers. Ghost had disappeared into the corridor halfway through and planted himself against the opposite wall, arms folded so tightly across his chest that nobody bothered asking whether he was all right.

Bishop still had {{user}}’s blood beneath one fingernail.

He’d washed his hands three times.

It remained.

Six hours after the operation, Nate and Gaz occupied a secured briefing room with the communications logs spread across two monitors. Price stood behind them. Ghost had eventually joined them, silent near the door. Soap remained with {{user}}, refusing to leave until they woke unless medical staff physically removed him.

“Again,” Price ordered.

Gaz replayed the timeline.

21:14:08 — Eastern extraction flagged compromised.

21:14:11 — Updated route transmitted to command post.

21:14:14 — Terminal acknowledgment registered. Operator: Elizabeth.

21:14:27 — Team Two approaching eastern junction.

21:14:42 — Hostile movement reconfirmed.

21:15:01 — First gunshot.

Forty-seven seconds.

Bishop stared at the timestamps.

“Could’ve been equipment failure,” Price said.

Nate nodded. “Checked.”

“And?”

“No transmission attempt.”

Ghost’s eyes lifted.

Price’s jaw tightened. “Could she have missed the warning?”

Gaz pointed toward the acknowledgment.

“She opened it.”

Silence.

“Could’ve intended to relay and been interrupted,” Price continued.

It wasn’t an excuse.

It was elimination.

Bishop understood exactly what his captain was doing.

“That’s what we’re checking now.”

Nate opened the command-post audio.

Static filled the room, followed by clipped voices, radio traffic, keyboard strikes.

Then:

“Eastern extraction compromised. Update Team Two.”

A pause.

Lizzie’s voice.

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

Nobody moved.

Seven seconds later, another voice spoke.

“You passing that to Team Two?”

Lizzie again.

“Yeah. I’ve got it.”

Ghost pushed away from the wall.

Price raised one hand.

Simon stopped.

Barely.

The recording continued.

No transmission.

No warning.

Nothing until gunfire erupted through Team Two’s comms.

Then Lizzie’s voice appeared again, suddenly panicked.

“Team Two, eastern extraction is compromised! Reroute west!”

Too late.

Nate stopped the recording.

The room went completely silent.

Price stared at the monitor.

Gaz leaned back slowly.

Ghost’s hands had curled into fists.

Bishop looked at the timeline once more.

There were mistakes.

There were delays.

There were moments of panic when trained personnel froze.

But this wasn’t someone overlooking a notification.

She had opened it.

Acknowledged it.

Been reminded.

Acknowledged it again.

And remained silent.

Price’s voice was frighteningly calm.

“Bring her in.”

Lizzie arrived ten minutes later.

She knew.

Nate could tell immediately.

She entered pale, eyes moving from Price to Ghost, then Gaz, then the screens.

Finally Bishop.

Her scent flooded with fear.

Price didn’t react.

“Sit.”

Lizzie obeyed.

John remained standing. “I’m going to ask you a question. Think very carefully before answering.”

Her fingers twisted together.

“Did you receive the warning about the eastern extraction route?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you understand it?”

Her breathing changed.

“Yes.”

Price’s jaw tightened.

“Why wasn’t it transmitted?”

Lizzie’s eyes filled.

“I—I was going to.”

Ghost made a quiet sound.

Price didn’t look at him.

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“You had forty-seven seconds.”

“I know.”

“You were reminded.”

She started crying.

“I know.”

Price remained completely still.

“Then tell me why.”

Lizzie looked toward Bishop.

That was her mistake.

Because Nate understood before she spoke.

Not the details.

The motive.

His notebook opened.

Lizzie saw it.

Her face crumpled.

“I didn’t want them hurt.”

Nobody answered.

“I swear.” Her voice broke. “I never wanted that. I thought—I thought someone else would repeat it. I was only going to wait a few seconds.”

Soap’s voice came from the doorway.

“Why?”

Everyone turned.

He had returned without anyone hearing him.

Johnny looked exhausted.

No grin. No warmth.

Nothing.

Lizzie stared at him.

“Soap—”

“Why?”

Her mouth trembled.

“I just wanted...”

She stopped.

Soap’s expression hardened.

“Wanted what?”

Lizzie looked down.

“I wanted {{user}} to mess up.”

Silence.

There it was.

“I thought Price would correct them. Or Ghost. Or Nate. I thought someone would realize they missed the update and...” She swallowed. “I wanted everyone to see the bond didn’t make them perfect.”

Ghost stepped forward.

Price’s voice stopped him.

“Simon.”

Ghost froze.

“Outside.”

“Price—”

“Now.”

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then Ghost turned and left.

The door shut with terrifying gentleness.

Lizzie was openly sobbing now. “I didn’t know there were hostiles that close.”

Bishop finally spoke.

“You knew the route was compromised.”

“I didn’t know they’d get shot!”

“No.”

Nate’s voice remained quiet.

“You didn’t.”

He turned one page.

“But you knew incorrect information could affect them professionally when you gave them the wrong training time.”

Lizzie looked up.

Another page.

“You knew false information could affect their relationships when you told them Soap didn’t want them around.”

“Nate—”

“And now you withheld operational intelligence because you wanted them to make a mistake.”

His eyes met hers.

Three separate incidents.

Different severity.

Same direction.

Bishop closed the notebook.

“You didn’t intend the outcome.”

Lizzie nodded desperately.

“No. God, no.”

Nate’s expression didn’t soften.

“But you intended the action.”

That destroyed whatever defense remained.

Price stepped forward.

“This is no longer a conversation about jealousy, mate bonds, or interpersonal conflict.”

His voice carried the absolute authority of Captain John Price.

“You deliberately withheld time-sensitive intelligence from an operator in the field.”

Lizzie whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Price looked toward Gaz.

“Escort her to holding. No communications access. No contact with {{user}}. Command gets the complete report tonight.”

Lizzie stared at him.

“John—”

His expression changed instantly.

“Captain.”

She went silent.

Gaz stood.

As he led her toward the door, Lizzie looked back at Soap.

Johnny turned away.

Then she looked toward Bishop.

Nate didn’t.

The door closed.

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Price finally exhaled.

“How’s {{user}}?”

Soap’s anger disappeared so quickly it was painful.

“Awake.”

Five heads lifted.

Johnny swallowed.

“Groggy. Hurting. But awake.”

Nate was already standing.

Ghost appeared in the doorway again as though he’d never actually gone far.

Price looked around at them.

Five men.

Five mates.

Five different instincts demanding they get to {{user}} immediately.

His own included.

“Nobody crowds them.”

Soap nodded.

Ghost grunted.

Gaz opened the door.

Bishop tucked the notebook away.

For tonight, the investigation could wait.

{{user}} couldn’t.

And somewhere between the briefing room and the hospital corridor, Nate finally noticed that the stubborn trace of blood beneath his fingernail was gone.

He wished the memory had washed away as easily.

The Reckoning

Three weeks after the operation, {{user}} was back on base.

Not cleared for active duty—not even close. Medical had restricted them to light duty while the wound healed, and Price enforced those restrictions with the enthusiasm of a man who had apparently decided doctor's orders were sacred law whenever they involved his mate. Soap hovered until threatened. Gaz had quietly reorganized several routines so {{user}} wouldn't need to ask for help. Ghost pretended he wasn't checking on them while appearing suspiciously often wherever they happened to be.

Bishop had spent those three weeks with his notebook.

Lizzie remained suspended from duty and barred from contacting {{user}} while command reviewed the operational incident. Her deliberate forty-seven-second delay was already established. What Price needed now was the rest: how long the behavior had been happening, whether anyone else had been affected, and exactly how many seemingly insignificant incidents had actually belonged to the same pattern.

So that evening, 141 gathered around the briefing table.

{{user}} was there too.

Nate placed the notebook in the center.

"Start at the beginning," Price said.

Bishop opened it.

"The first week."

He read through the earliest entries. Lizzie telling {{user}} that Nate treated everyone with the same attention. The incorrect training time. Her claim that Soap had complained about {{user}} despite being nowhere near her on the night she supposedly heard it.

Then Gaz remembered something.

"Wait."

Everyone looked at him.

Kyle frowned. "She told me {{user}} didn't want help settling in. Said they wanted space from all of us."

{{user}} had never said that.

Nate wrote it down.

Soap leaned forward. "She told me they thought I was too much."

His expression changed as the memory clicked into place.

"Before the lie we already caught."

Another note.

Ghost had been silent.

Price noticed.

"Simon?"

Ghost's eyes moved toward {{user}} before returning to the table.

"Heard her talking to them once."

The room quieted.

"When?" Bishop asked.

"Few weeks before the operation." Ghost's jaw tightened beneath the mask. "Thought she was alone with {{user}}. Told them the bond was biology. Said once the novelty wore off, we'd remember we had lives before they arrived."

Soap went completely still.

Ghost continued.

"Said I barely tolerated people touching me. Asked {{user}} why they thought they'd be special."

Nate's pen stopped.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Handled it."

Price's eyebrows rose. "Meaning?"

"Told her I heard her."

"And?"

"She stopped doing it where I could hear."

Bishop closed his eyes briefly.

"Simon."

"Didn't know she'd escalate."

The words landed heavily.

None of them had.

Price looked toward the notebook.

"Anything involving me?"

Gaz shifted.

"Actually..."

John's expression darkened.

Apparently Lizzie had repeatedly implied she knew Price better than most—what he liked, what irritated him, when he wanted company, even what kind of partner he'd supposedly prefer.

Price stared at Gaz.

"I told that woman how I take my tea."

Soap coughed.

"Apparently that constituted courtship."

"Johnny."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Not particularly."

Despite everything, {{user}} laughed.

Five men looked toward them.

The tension cracked.

Just slightly.

Price's expression softened first.

Then Nate looked down at the notebook.

Pages and pages.

Tiny moments.

Individually insignificant.

Together unmistakable.

He turned to the final entry.

21:14:14 — warning acknowledged.

21:15:01 — contact.

Forty-seven seconds.

Bishop stared at it for a long moment.

Then closed the notebook.

"That's everything."

Price leaned back.

"No."

Nate looked up.

John's gaze had settled on {{user}}.

"There's one more thing."

The room quieted.

Price folded his hands. "None of this happened because {{user}} joined 141."

Soap's expression softened.

"Lizzie made choices," Price continued. "Jealousy may explain them. Doesn't excuse them."

Ghost nodded once.

Gaz looked toward {{user}}. "You didn't take anything from her."

Soap added quietly, "And you sure as hell didn't make her do any of it."

Nate understood.

For weeks they'd made sure {{user}} knew the bond didn't entitle five men to their affection.

Now they needed to make sure {{user}} understood the reverse.

They weren't responsible for what someone else had done in response to it.

Price glanced toward Bishop.

"Recommendation?"

Nate looked at his notebook.

Once, he'd used it to document elevated pulse rates and scent responses because admitting he had feelings had apparently been more frightening than analyzing them.

Then it became a record of inconsistencies.

Eventually evidence.

Now?

Finished.

"Command has the facts," Nate said. "What happens to Lizzie is their decision."

He pushed the notebook away.

"I'm done giving her space in this room."

Silence.

Then Soap smiled.

Small at first.

"Good."

Gaz nodded.

Ghost relaxed against the wall.

Price closed the official file.

"Then we're finished."

Just like that.

No dramatic celebration.

No victory.

Only an ending.

The team began to disperse. Soap immediately started discussing dinner. Gaz reminded him that takeaway wasn't a food group. Ghost muttered that it was if nobody cooked. Price threatened all three with kitchen duty.

Nate remained seated.

He looked toward the chair beside him.

{{user}} wasn't sitting there.

The same chair he'd unconsciously cleared for them on their first morning with 141.

Bishop stared at it.

Then sighed.

Some habits apparently survived everything.

He pulled the chair out.

Soap stopped talking.

Gaz noticed.

Ghost noticed.

Price definitely noticed.

Nate ignored all four.

His blue eyes settled on {{user}}.

"There's a seat here."

Soap made a strangled noise.

Bishop pointed at him without looking away from {{user}}.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were going to."

Gaz grinned.

Price shook his head.

Ghost gave a quiet huff of amusement.

And for the first time since {{user}} walked through Task Force 141's doors, Nate didn't need a notebook to explain why he'd made room for them.

He simply wanted them there.