One was a vibrant, mischievous blue, belonging to the man sitting directly to your left, Sergeant John MacTavish. The other was a dark, intense weight from your right, Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley.

Johnny's knee brushed yours under the table. A subtle, deliberate touch. A silent promise of what would happen later. You fought the urge to smirk.

You three had an arrangement. It wasn't complicated. It wasn't romantic. It was... efficient. A way to blow off steam, to feel something other than the cold steel of a weapon or the adrenaline-fueled terror of a firefight. You and Johnny had a history, a playful, fiery dynamic that was easy to slip into. And then Simon had joined the fray, a dark, quiet storm who added a layer of intensity that was utterly addicting. It was a perfect, if slightly crowded, balance.

And it was your little secret.

Or so you thought.

The mission was a success, as usual. Clean extraction, minimal fuss. Back on base, you were all nursing a beer in the rec room, the comfortable silence of a job well done settling over you. Price walked in, a rare, almost paternal smile on his face.

"Good work today, all of you," he said, clapping Soap on the shoulder. "You too, Simon. And you, Lass. Sharp shooting out there."

"Thank you, sir," you replied, your face flushing slightly under the praise.

He moved to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. Then, he paused, his back to you. He spoke without turning around, his voice deceptively casual. "You know, the walls in this base are bloody thin."

Your blood ran cold. You froze mid-sip. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Johnny's easy-going expression shutter. Simon remained a statue, but you could feel the sudden, crackling tension radiating from him.

Price turned around slowly, leaning against the counter. He took a long, slow drink from his water bottle, his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, fixed on the three of you. He looked at Johnny, then at Simon, and finally, his gaze landed on you. It wasn't angry. It wasn't even disappointed. It was... calculating. Amused.

"Wasn't sure at first," he continued, his tone light. "Thought maybe it was just Johnny being his usual loud self. But then I started to recognize the... other sounds. The ones that weren't his." He nodded towards you. "And then I heard Simon's voice. Never thought I'd hear the Ghost use that kind of tone. Not with a bird, anyway."

Johnny let out a low, nervous chuckle. "Eh, cap'n, it's not what it sounds like—"

"It sounds like the three of you are running a goddamn porno set in your off-hours," Price interrupted, but there was a definite twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I heard you, MacTavish, calling her a 'bonnie lass' and then something about how she 'takes it so well'. And Simon," he shook his head, a look of genuine bewilderment on his face, "the things that come out of your mouth when you're... otherwise occupied. 'Whose are you?' Really? Poetic, that."

Your face was on fire. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. You dared a glance at Simon, whose dark eyes were fixed on Price, his expression unreadable. He was completely still, assessing a new threat.

"So, my question," Price said, pushing off the counter and walking towards the table, his boots ringing on the concrete floor, "is not if you're all shagging each other senseless. That much is clear as day now. My question is... how the hell does that even work? Logistically, I mean. Is there a rota? A sign-up sheet? Do you draw straws?"

He stopped at the head of the table, looking between the three of you, his mouth set in a firm line, but his eyes were sparkling with mirth. He was enjoying this. The bastard was enjoying this.

Johnny, bless his heart, was the first to break. A wide, shit-eating grin spread across his face. "Well, sir," he said, his Scottish burr thick and playful, "it's less of a rota and more of a... ah... 'all-hands-on-deck' situation."

You choked on your beer, sputtering as Simon finally moved, reaching over to pat you firmly on the back. His touch was steady, but you could see the hint of a smirk in the crinkles around his eyes.

Price stared at Johnny for a long moment, then at you, then at Simon. And then, to your absolute astonishment, the Captain of Task Force 141 threw his head back and laughed. A full, deep, belly-shaking laugh that echoed through the room.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. "You're all bloody mad." He pointed a finger at the three of you, his expression sobering slightly. "Just keep it in your room, and for the love of God, soundproof the bloody door. Some of us are trying to sleep."

With that, he turned and walked out of the rec room, still chuckling to himself.

The silence he left behind was thick enough to cut with a knife. You slowly looked at Johnny, whose grin was now impossibly wide. You then looked at Simon, who had finally pulled his mask up to reveal his own small, rare smile.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over your shoulder. "Well," he said cheerfully, "I suppose the cat's out of the bag, bonnie."

Simon just grunted, reaching across the table to take your other hand. "Less talkin'," he rumbled, his dark gaze dropping to your lips. "More soundproofing."