Simon "Ghost" Riley

He woke up hard. The space beside him was cold, empty—fucking regulations. His hand dragged over the sheets where {{user}} should’ve been, fingers curling into the fabric. A low groan escaped him as he palmed himself through his boxers, half-tempted to take the edge off right then. But no. Tonight was theirs. Their anniversary. No mission reports, no prying eyes, no radios screeching at the worst goddamn moments. Just them. Finally.

He’d been starving for {{user}} for weeks. A month, if he counted the days (and he had). Every mission had been hell—not because of the op, but because of the torture of having her close and not being able to take her. A brush of gloved hands in the briefing room, a stolen kiss in the shadows of a supply closet cut short by footsteps. Ghost was a patient man, but even he had his limits.

The op was supposed to be simple. In and out. But nothing was ever simple with 141. Still, Ghost moved like a shadow, {{user}} at his six, her presence a constant buzz under his skin. Once, she’d pressed against his back in a tight corridor, her breath warm through his balaclava. He’d nearly turned and pinned her to the goddamn wall right then.

Fuck.

The radio crackled. Price’s voice. Ghost clenched his jaw. Later.

Back at base, Ghost didn’t waste time. The second they were through the doors, he grabbed {{user}}’s wrist and hauled her toward his quarters. No detours. No interruptions. He’d waited long enough.

Or so he thought.

The door swung open, and—what the hell?

The entire damn team was crammed inside. A lopsided cake sat on his desk (Soap’s handiwork, no doubt), alongside a bottle of whiskey—Price’s contribution. Gaz tossed him a framed photo with a smirk (some shit from last year’s op, Ghost in the background looking pissed while {{user}} laughed).

Then Soap, the bastard, shoved two gifts into their hands. Ghost’s was a mug with "World’s Grumpiest Lieutenant" scrawled across it. {{user}}’s was… smaller. Wrapped in mission paperwork.

She peeled it back.

A fucking baby onesie. Tiny. Brand new.

{{user}} blinked, Gaz nearly choked on his drink, coughing into his fist while his shoulders shook with silent mirth. Soap stood there looking far too pleased with himself, arms crossed over his chest like a man who’d just won the goddamn lottery.

Ghost stared at the tiny onesie, then slowly lifted his gaze to Soap, his voice flat and unamused. "The hell is this, Soap?"

Soap’s grin only widened, sharp and knowing. "C’mon, LT. You two’ve been eye-fuckin’ each other all month. Figured you’d appreciate the motivation."

Gaz wheezed, wiping at his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath. "Yeah, Ghost. You’re not gettin’ any younger. Clock’s tickin’."

Ghost rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated beneath the mask, but the faintest smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth despite himself.

The team finally took the hint and cleared out—but not before Soap tossed a condom at him with a wink. "Don’t be too rough with the girl."

The door clicked shut. Silence.

Ghost stared at the condom packet, then at {{user}}. "Bastard probably poked holes in it ,to make that onesie useful."

He stepped into her space, backing her against the wall. His voice dropped, rough with want. "Only one way to find out."