Lady who likes reading

The rec room was unusually peaceful that afternoon, the kind of quiet that settled over the base like a rare blanket—soft, warm, and fragile. Sunlight filtered through the half‑drawn blinds, casting lazy stripes across the worn carpet and the scattered toys that had migrated from Charlotte’s room in your house together with her today. The faint hum of the fridge was the only sound breaking the stillness along with Charlotte’s markers scratched softly against paper.

Gaz was sprawled on the floor with her, flat on his stomach like a fellow conspirator, nodding along seriously as she explained her masterpiece. “That’s a proper dragon, innit? Look at those wings—fierce!” Charlotte, all serious four‑year‑old concentration, lay beside him on her tummy, her little legs bent at the knees, feet lazily kicking the air behind her in slow, rhythmic swings. Her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth as she switched from purple to pink.

Simon sat beside you on the sagging couch, his massive frame somehow folded into something almost soft. One arm draped along the backrest behind you, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in absent affection—a quiet claim, a reminder that even here, in this rare pocket of calm, you were his. He was relaxed in a way that only happened when his daughter was within arm’s reach—no mask, no tension in his jaw, just quiet vigilance as he watched her draw. You leaned into his side, the familiar weight of him grounding, your hand resting lightly on his thigh, tracing idle circles through the fabric of his jeans.

Soap lounged against the opposite sofa, boots kicked up on the coffee table despite Price’s earlier glare, while he himself occupied the armchair like a throne, nursing a mug of coffee that had gone cold five minutes ago.

Domestic. Harmless. Almost normal—if not for the fact that each of the five adults in this room had triple‑digit body counts.

Soap glanced over at Charlotte, his smirk slow and mischievous as he eyed Simon. “You better brace yourself, Lt. Few years and you’ll have boys comin’ round, knockin’ on the door.”

Simon didn’t even blink, his voice a low, flat rumble that vibrated against your side. “Not until she’s fifty.”

Charlotte hummed thoughtfully, switching to a glittery gold marker for the princess’s crown. “I have a boyfriend.”

The room went perfectly, impossibly still.

Simon’s posture changed—not visibly, not dramatically—something in the air tightened, like a wire pulled taut. His fingers stilled on the back of the couch, then shifted to curl possessively over your shoulder, pulling you fractionally closer. You felt the shift in his body against yours, the subtle coil of muscle under the hoodie, the way his breath deepened just a touch.

Charlotte continued colouring, entirely unbothered, adding careful strokes. “His name is Oliver.”

No one spoke. The fridge’s hum seemed suddenly deafening.

“I love him,” she added matter‑of‑factly, as if announcing the weather.

The silence became physical, heavy enough to press against your chest.

Gaz slowly looked up from the floor, eyes wide as he met yours in silent panic. Soap stopped breathing altogether, his smirk frozen halfway. Price lowered his mug an inch, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

“We kissed,” little one said brightly, selecting a red marker next.

Simon stood.

Not fast. Not angry. Just… up. Fluid, deliberate, like a shadow uncoiling.

He turned and walked toward the door, each step measured.

You were on your feet instantly, heart lurching into your throat. “Simon.”

Soap lunged from his place, throwing himself between Simon and the exit like a human barricade. “Lt—you cannot beat up a four‑year‑old.”

Simon didn’t break stride, his voice eerily calm. “Watch me.”

“JESUS—” Soap yelped, scrambling to keep pace as Simon brushed past him. “Have you lost the plot entirely?”

Gaz hurried after him. “Mate, that’s mental—even for you! He’s in reception class, for Christ’s sake!”

Price set his mug down with a deliberate clink and moved in front of Simon, hands up in placation. “Easy, Simon. Breathe. Let’s think this through rationally.”

You stand before your husband and put both your hands on his chest. “Simon! Stop. Love, look at me.”

That managed to stop him, the four of you forming a chaotic knot in the doorway. Soap seized the opening, voice rushed and high‑pitched. “Alright—alright—it’s probably just a cheek kiss. Little ones do that. It’s always a cheek. Innocent. Sweet, even.”

Charlotte, without looking up from her drawing, piped up cheerfully: “He kissed me on the lips. Just like daddy kiss mummy.”

The world ended.

A beat of utter catastrophe.

Simon tore free with terrifying ease, overtaking all four of you.

The door flew open with a bang against the wall.

Boots thundered down the hallway—his first, heavy and purposeful, followed by the frantic scramble of the rest.

Soap was yelling something incoherent about international incidents being easier to handle. Price was swearing under his breath, a steady stream of creative profanity. You were shouting Simon’s name as he switched fully, unmistakably, into Ghost—silent now, lethal, unstoppable, the man who could clear rooms without a sound.

And then—

Quiet returned to the rec room, abrupt and surreal.

Charlotte kept colouring, adding generous swirls of glitter to the princess’s dress. She capped the marker with a satisfied pop.

Beat.

Gaz skidded back, eyes wide with sudden horror as realisation dawned.

“Oh my God, we forgot the child,” he breathed, scooping her up in one fluid motion, markers scattering. “Come on, princess. Adventure time.”

As they rounded the corner into the hallway, Gaz caught sight of the storm ahead and yelled over the din, “Mate, you really want her to be a widow at such a young age?”

Price barked back without missing a beat, “You’re not helping, Kyle!”

“I’ll fucking kill you, Gaz!” you yelled at the same time.

“Seriously, Gaz, that’s not funny!” Soap screamed hysterically.

Charlotte frowned curiously at the scene—Simon storming toward the exit, Soap desperately clinging to his back like a koala, arms locked around his neck.

“Why is Daddy giving Uncle Johnny a piggyback ride?”

Gaz didn’t miss a step, voice strained as he pounded after them. “Uncle Johnny really, really wanted that one, princess.”

You tugged harder. “Simon, love of my life, you really want to spend the rest of your days in prison for assaulting a four‑year‑old?”

“Worth it.”

“Your little princess will miss you terribly.”

“You’ll visit every day.”

You stared at him, incredulous even as Soap wheezed dramatically. “Fuck—you’re hopeless.”

“You knew what you were getting into.”

“I am actively rethinking my life choices, you lunatic!”

Then—

“Daddy!”

Simon stopped dead. The lethal momentum of the Ghost, the entire, unstoppable engine of vengeance, seized up.

The hallway froze. Soap still on Simon’s back, clinging to him like a terrified monkey, slid down onto the floor, taking a deep breath.

Charlotte wriggled out of Gaz’s arms and toddled toward him, her arms outstretched, her feet making tiny pat‑pat sounds on the concrete.

“I want a piggyback ride too!”

The shift was instant, a biological miracle of fatherhood.

Ghost vanished. The terrifying, cold‑blooded killer was replaced by a loving, if deeply traumatized, father.

Simon dropped to one knee, the weight of him hitting the floor loud in the suddenly silent hall. His arms opened, the dangerous tension in his shoulders melting away like snow.

“Alright, love,” he said, his voice instantly soft, completely without the earlier growl.

He lifted her up effortlessly, settling her securely on his shoulders.

Charlotte giggled, the sound like wind chimes after a terrible storm, gripping his head with both hands.

“Yay!” she screamed happily when he walked back to the rec room. The door clicked shut behind them, her laughter echoing faintly through the walls.

The rest of 141 stood frozen in the hallway, still catching their breath. Soap’s hair stuck up at odd angles, Gaz was bent double with his hands on his knees, and Price—for the first time since you’d met him—looked terrified.

“Jesus…” Gaz managed between breaths, eyes wide. “He didn’t even notice he wasn’t wearing his balaclava.”

Then, slowly, they all turned to you.

You blinked at them. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Soap flopped against the wall, shaking his head. “Don’t you have a manual?”

You threw your hands up. “A manual? To Ghost? Anyone who’d tried to describe that nut‑case would end up in a white apron, locked in a padded room.”

Price gave you a long, weary stare. “You married him.”

You crossed your arms, defiant. “Soo?”

Soap jabbed a finger at you, voice high and incredulous.  “You’re supposed to be the expert!”

You snorted. “I’m just damage control. You think I can leash him? She’s the one you should talk to.”

From inside the rec room, Charlotte’s giggles rang out again, bright and oblivious, while Simon’s low voice carried faintly through the door — calm, steady, as if none of the chaos had ever happened.

Rain glazed the café windows in a steady rhythm, blurring the city into soft shades of amber and slate. Streetlights glimmered across puddles like broken glass, and the faint hum of traffic mixed with the clink of cutlery from the other patrons.

You sat across from Captain Price in a corner booth, a mug of coffee cradled between your hands. To anyone else, you were just another pair sheltering from the rain, but beneath the table, the weight of your sidearm pressed into your thigh, reminding you that casual didn’t exist here. Your comms whispered softly in your ear, and you couldn’t help the tiny thrill that ran through you every time Gaz’s voice cut through the static.

Price sipped his drink with the slow patience of a man who’d done this too many times to count. “Any movement?” he murmured, low and unhurried.

“Nothing yet,” you replied, scanning the slick street outside. “Either he’s late or he’s smart enough to know he’s being hunted.”

Static crackled softly before Gaz’s voice broke through, smooth and lazy, like he was lying back on some rooftop with nothing better to do.

“I see something dangerous.”

Price’s brow lifted slightly, eyes still on the street.

From somewhere above, Soap’s Scottish burr came immediately: “Where? You got eyes on the bastard?”

“Report properly, Sergeant. Don’t start games mid-op.” Ghost followed, tone clipped and dry.

There was a pause. The kind of pause that told you trouble was about to start.

Then Gaz’s tone dropped, rich with amusement. “She’s sitting with our Captain… looks like she could easily strangle a man with her thighs.”

You didn’t even blink, a slow grin spreading across your face as you traced the rim of your mug with a finger. “You’re right about that,” you said sweetly into the comms. “Want to find out for yourself?”

Across from you, Price groaned quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “For fuck’s sake…”

Ghost muttered flatly, “Jesus.”

Soap was wheezing with laughter, his mic crackling. “Gaz, mate, you’re diggin’ your own grave.”

But Gaz only sounded delighted. “Is that an invitation, love?”

You swirled your coffee idly, watching a car roll past the café window. “Maybe. But you’d have to earn it.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Earn it? How exactly?”

“Keep focus,” you said, voice smooth, eyes tracking the street outside. “Or don’t. Depends how much you want to be distracted.”

A pause. Then his voice came back, low and playful. “And if I wanted to be distracted?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think and then smiled into your cup. “I might spill this drink all over my chest. Warning — I’m not wearing a bra.”

Price choked. Violently. He sputtered into his coffee, coughing into his fist as his eyes watered. “For bloody— Christ—” He slammed the mug down and gasped for air.

Soap’s laughter exploded over comms. “CAP’S DOWN! I REPEAT, CAPTAIN PRICE IS DOWN!”

Even Ghost let out a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “This team is an absolute disgrace.”

Gaz’s laughter came next, low and utterly unrepentant. “You’re gonna kill the Captain, love.”

Price, still coughing, shot you a look that could have curdled milk. “Focus,” he rasped, wiping his mouth. “Focus before I make you lot scrub the armoury with toothbrushes.”

You batted your lashes innocently. “Yes, sir.” Then, with a sugar-sweet lilt: “Though from what I gather Gaz wouldn’t mind me on my knees.”

Soap’s hysterics reached a new octave. Ghost groaned audibly. “Fuck’s sake.”

But Gaz wasn’t done. “She’s not wrong. Not wrong at all.”

Price exhaled, long and slow, the sound of a man deeply regretting every choice that led him here. “Next mission,” he said darkly, “you two are on opposite continents.”

You grinned into your mug, tapping it lightly against the tabletop. “Shame. Was planning to tick ‘mile-high club’ off my bucket list.”

Gaz’s laughter crackled through comms, warm and teasing. “Say the word, love — I’ll sort the flight.”

Soap was still giggling like a lunatic. “Best bloody stakeout ever.”

Ghost’s tone was bone-dry. “This is a professional operation. Or was, five minutes ago.”

Price muttered under his breath, “Goddamn children.”

You kept your gaze on the street, pulse still quick with laughter — and maybe something else entirely. Your fingers traced the rim of the mug again as your eyes flicked to the alley. Then you saw it: a shadow moving swiftly through the rain, ducking near a doorway.

The teasing drained from your voice in an instant. “Target in sight,” you said, eyes narrowing.

All humour vanished from comms. The warmth that had lingered between you and Gaz shifted into sharp, professional focus, like steel sliding from its sheath.

Gaz’s voice, calm but edged with that familiar grin, came next. “Copy that. Eyes on.”

Price leaned forward, tone all business. “Hold positions. Wait for the mark.”

You let out a breath, steady and quiet, then murmured into comms — just for Gaz. “Still distracted?”

A low chuckle. “Always.”

Price’s sigh was deep enough to rattle the mic. “Enough.”

John Price

The rooftop was cold, the concrete beneath your stomach long since leached the heat from your body. The scope of your rifle was fogging slightly from your breath, and your back ached from lying prone for hours. You could hear the others shifting restlessly through the comms—four elite operators with itchy trigger fingers, slowly going stir crazy.

“Anyone got eyes on movement?” Gaz's voice crackled through the comms, sounding just as miserable as you felt.

“Negative,” Soap sighed. “Not even a bird.”

"Starting to think we imagined the whole op," you muttered, adjusting your scope for the fifth time in ten minutes. "Like a fever dream. A bad one. With no snacks."

“What’s the bet the bastard we’re tracking fell asleep in his flat with a kebab in hand and telly on full volume?” Gaz added, deadpan.

“Hope he chokes on it,” Ghost said, as dry as ever.

“I hope we get to choke something,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Like, a sandwich. I’m starving.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap groaned. “My arse has gone numb. Fully. Gone. I think I left it back at base.”

“You and me both,” Gaz muttered. “I can’t feel my legs anymore. Or my will to live.”

“I feel fine,” Ghost offered with zero sympathy.

“Of course you do, you’re barely human!” Soap snapped.

You wriggled your hips into a better position with a whimper. “I miss chairs. Soft ones. With cushions. Remember those?”

“Oh don’t,” Gaz said. “Now I miss tea. And proper socks. And central heating.”

“Cup of builder’s,” you sighed wistfully. “Two sugars. And a KitKat.”

“Stop,” Soap whimpered. “I’d sell Ghost’s left leg for a Twix.”

Ghost, flatly: “Can we focus.”

You squinted at your scope. “On what? The air? I’m watching the same empty alley I was an hours ago. I’ve named the cracks in the pavement. That one’s Phillip. He’s lonely.”

There was a pause—then Price’s voice, smooth and rumbling like warm whiskey over gravel, crackled into your ear. “You lot get restless too easy.”

You smirked, immediately perking up at the sound of him. “Oh, forgive us for being bored on our fifth hour of fuck-all, Captain. Come on, give us something. A story. A poem. A dirty little secret.”

“I swear,” Soap groaned, “if I see one more pigeon shagging another pigeon on this rooftop, I’m gonna jump.”

“At least someone’s gettin’ action,” Gaz quipped.

You flipped onto your back dramatically, rifle resting beside you. “If I die of boredom, I want my tombstone to say ‘Here lies Y/N, killed by a lack of action.’”

“I’ll carve it myself,” Ghost offered. “Proper flowers. Maybe I’ll recite a poem.”

“Cheers, Simon,” you said sweetly. “Just make sure I’m in my best black lace.”

A moment of loaded silence.

Then—

Price’s voice, dark and amused, “Thought you didn’t wear anything under that kit.”

The world went still. You blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?”

Soap made a horrified choking sound.

Gaz, stunned: “He did not just say that—”

Your lips curled into a grin. “Alright, Captain, you been scoping me out or just fantasising?”

“Both.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap mumbled. “We’re in hell.”

You rolled back onto your stomach, kicking your feet in the air like a teenage girl on the phone. “Bet you like the view when I’m ahead of you.”

“Like it?” Price drawled. “I’m thinkin’ of painting it.”

You sucked in a breath, grin growing. “Oh, you’re a bad boy, Captain.”

Gaz muttered, “I’m impressed the old man’s still got it.”

“I’m sure he had his fair share of ladies,” Soap snorted. “Back in the 1800s.”

That was when Price’s tone dropped—sharp and tired.

“Enough.”

Everyone stilled.

“Next person to ramble,” he said coldly, “I swear to God, I’ll climb up there and muzzle the lot of you.”

You waited a beat.

And then you moaned. Loud. Deliberate.

“Oh fuck me, daddy, you promise?”

There was a long beat of stunned silence.

Soap made a sound like a dying animal.

Gaz groaned. “I’m gonna have to bleach my ears.”

Ghost: “I hate it here.”

But then—

Price laughed.

Low. Smooth. Filthy, with a teasing edge that made your pulse skip.

“You’re not ready for me, sweetheart.”

You purred. “Wanna bet?”

“I need a new squad," Gaz said.

──────────

Simon "Ghost" Riley

The city was quiet beneath the blanket of night. Rooftops baked from the day’s sun now radiated residual heat under your elbows as you lay beside Soap, the two of you prone, rifles resting on your packs. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and ozone, the kind of scent that clung to summer nights and old concrete.

You scanned the target building through your scope—an abandoned apartment complex with poor security and worse lighting. A few flickering bulbs cast long shadows across broken balconies. Somewhere below, a dog barked once and fell silent.

Soap shifted beside you, his breath fogging faintly in the cooling air.

“This has to be the dullest stakeout in recorded history,” he muttered, voice low but unmistakably…

“Bored?” you asked, amusement curling in your tone.

“I’ve had more exciting dental appointments,” he deadpanned, adjusting his grip on the rifle like it might suddenly become interesting.

You snorted softly. “At least the view’s decent.”

“What do you mean?” He peeked over your scope, eyebrows raised. “Are you watching Ghost’s arse?”

“Obviously,” you said, dropping back behind your rifle. “That’s a man who looks good from every angle. Tactical gear, mask, brooding silence—it’s a whole aesthetic.”

There was a low, crackling pause across comms.

Ghost’s voice came in cool, clipped, but surely amused. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Oh, I know,” you purred, letting your voice drip with mischief. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

Soap grinned beside you, clearly enjoying the chaos. “She’s been ogling your backside for the past fifteen minutes, Lt. I’d say she’s got it memorized.”

“Hard not to. That gear is working overtime. You should charge admission.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Ghost answered, dry as dust but with a hint of something darker beneath: “Would you like me to bend over or do a little spin for you?”

You grinned, heart skipping. “Yes, please.”

“You need to write me a poem first.”

“Sure. Roses are red, my aim is tight—say one more word, and I’ll beg you tonight.”

Soap wheezes beside you, covering his face with his gloved hands.

Even Gaz chimes in: “Was that off the dome?”

“She's terrifying,” Soap declares.

Price murmured something, but all you heard was a grumble and the faint clink of his lighter, followed by a long exhale.

Soap laughed. “Go on, Ghost—flirt back.”

You chimed in sweetly, “Yeah, Lt. Live a little. Show us what a good boy you can be.”

That did it. Ghost’s voice dropped an octave, smooth and dangerous. “One more word like that and I’ll have you on your knees before you can blink.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the street traffic below seemed to pause, like the city itself was holding its breath.

Soap choked, wheezing. “OH—oh bloody hell! He did not—”

Gaz sounded like he was physically leaning away from his mic. “Fuuuuck…”

You blinked, heat rushing to your face. Then muttered, half-laughing and completely breathless, “I think I just came a little.”

Soap wheeled away from his rifle, laughing so hard he nearly kicked his pack off the roof. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear to Jesus.”

Price, ever the composed one, sighed over comms like a war-weary father. “I’m rethinking every life decision that led me here. Horny teenagers, the whole damn lot of you.”

Gaz, cool as ever, added, “You told us to build trust, Captain.”

“And I regret it deeply,” Price shot back. “You’re all banned from flirting. Effective immediately.”

“Oh, come on,” Soap whined. “Let ‘em flirt. It’s the first time I’ve heard Ghost sound like he’s actually enjoyin’ himself.”

You smiled, propping your chin on your hand, eyes still fixed on the scope. “He can enjoy himself all he wants. As long as he shares.”

There was another long pause—then Ghost’s voice again, quiet but laced with amusement.

“Be careful what you wish for… I’m generous when provoked.”

Your stomach did a very unprofessional flip.

Soap let out a sharp whistle. “That’s starting to sound like the beginning of a sex-over-the-phone session.”

Gaz added, grinning: “Watch out, mate. You’re in the blast radius.”

You bit your lip, letting a slow smirk curl your mouth. “I hope your generosity extends beyond words, Lieutenant. And that you can handle a challenge,” you purred, letting the words hang deliberately.

Ghost’s voice dropped lower, velvet and lethal, vibrating through the earpiece. “I don’t handle… I dominate.”

Soap groaned, half in disbelief. “Jesus… this is unprofessional on a whole new level.”

Price sighed again—the kind of sigh that suggested he was Googling early retirement plans for emotional trauma.

──────────

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

The city stretched below you in shades of rusted orange and cobalt grey, the low sun slanting across rooftops like a lazy afterthought. Crumbling balconies, steel antennae, and satellite dishes littered the skyline. Heat shimmered from concrete. Somewhere below, the target was supposed to appear—maybe. Maybe not. It was that kind of op.

The air was dry, dead still. Even the flies seemed bored.

You were belly-down on the rooftop of a six-story building, cheek pressed lightly to the butt of your rifle. Breathing slow. Scope trained on the third-floor balcony of a rundown apartment block two buildings over.

You’d been lying in that exact position for over an hour.

Across the comms, the occasional check-in kept things barely professional. Mostly, it was silence. Or was, until a voice floated in with a familiar Glaswegian lilt—casual, amused, sinful.

“Gotta say, lass,” Soap murmured, his voice low and coaxing like honey sliding over gravel, “your arse in those tac pants? Divine.”

You arched a brow, but your lips curled.

“Cheers, Johnny,” you replied smoothly. “Always nice to know the gear’s flattering.”

“Not just flattering. I’m talkin’ biblical,” he went on, warm and cocky. “Might need to start goin’ to church again, just to thank the Lord properly.”

You huffed a soft laugh through your nose, still watching that empty balcony. The bastard was behind you—higher up, likely on the scaffolding just above the rooftop edge where he’d found the perfect sniper perch. You didn’t need to turn to know he had you in his scope.

You stretched a little. A slow, subtle roll of your hips. Then, casually—so casually—you reached one hand back and gave your own arse a sharp, echoing smack.

There was a moment of utter comms silence.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass,” Soap groaned like a man physically wounded. “You’re a menace.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, blinking innocently even as you settled back into place, “was that… distracting?”

Gaz’s voice cut in, bewildered and amused:

“What just happened?”

Ghost didn’t even sound surprised. Just… resigned.

“Don’t ask.”

“I—You—You you gave yourself a spank!” Soap sputtered.

“Well, you were lookin’ anyway,” you teased, lips twitching. “Figured I’d give you a proper show.”

There was the sound of someone exhaling like they were trying not to lose their mind.

Price’s voice, tight with warning:

“Can we please focus.”

“Copy that, Captain. Balcony’s still clear,” you said in your most professional tone, as if you hadn’t just started a comms-based sexual harassment scandal.

You saw movement through the glass of the empty apartment—just a curtain stirring. Nothing more.

“Gonna fall off this fuckin’ roof,” Soap muttered faintly. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You tilted your head slightly, smirk sharpening, voice dropping to a dark and wicked whisper. You knew he’d hear every word.

“Just so you know, Johnny,” you purred, each syllable velvet-wrapped, “I’m stroking a trigger right now... thinking about you.”

A pause.

A long one.

Then—

“I need a fuckin’ cold shower,” Soap groaned.

Gaz wheezed, laughing.

“Mate’s gonna blow his load on a rooftop.”

You could practically hear Soap short-circuiting over comms. His next words were a blur of frustration and barely restrained arousal:

“I am composed. I am professional. I am not picturing her stroking—fuckin’ hell, woman!”

You chuckled quietly to yourself, cheek still snug to the rifle, pulse humming like a livewire.

“You’re the one who started it.”

“Yeah, well,” Soap muttered, “if I die here, it’s on you. Blood pressure’s critical.”

“Fucking teenagers,” Ghost deadpanned.

Price’s voice again, now completely exasperated:

“If the balcony target doesn’t show in ten minutes, I’m authorising a tranquiliser dart for Soap.”

“I volunteer to do it,” Ghost said immediately.

“Oi, piss off,” Soap shot back. “I’m havin’ a moment here.”

You bit your lip to suppress the smile threatening to break your face. The building in your scope remained quiet—no signs of life. But the mission wasn’t boring anymore.

The wedding had been great—a little bigger than you would have chosen yourself, but Johnny had a big family and an even bigger list of mates, so you didn’t mind in the end. It was loud, crazy, and you’d had the time of your life.

Especially when, in the middle of the “first dance,” he had decided that the celebrations with family and friends could wait, scooped you up over his shoulder, and carried you straight to your bridal suite.

You’d consummated the marriage before the official wedding night. Twice. Without losing your wedding dress or his kilt.

And since you were still newlyweds—literally married on Saturday—you hadn’t yet submitted any of the paperwork the base needed to make it official in their records. As far as anyone on base knew, nothing had changed and you were just teammates.

──────────

Monday morning you were paying for a bad decision from last week. You’d lost a bet—cards, of course—with the 141, and your forfeit had been to clean all their weapons. Of course those fuckers you called your teammates didn’t even budge. They were merciless, enjoying every second of your misery, and the fact that you were freshly married didn’t mean shit to them. You lost, you had to pay.

So here you were in the armoury, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, elbow-deep in the 141’s weapons cache, working your way through a pile of rifles, pistols, and the occasional grenade launcher with a rag and a bottle of oil. The smell of solvent clung to the air, sharp and metallic, mixing with the familiar tang of gunpowder residue. The clink of tools and shifting metal filled the silence, steady and methodical.

The door creaked open.

“You break all those, or is this some kind of new training exercise?”

You looked up to see a man you didn’t recognise—tall, lean, sergeant’s stripes, fresh uniform, and the kind of confident smirk that said he hadn’t yet learned where the social landmines were.

“Lost a bet,” you said simply, returning your focus to the rifle you were cleaning.

“That bad, huh? What’d you bet on?”

“Cards. With my squad.”

Hayes raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Which squad’s that?”

You didn’t look up. “141.”

There was a beat of silence.

His expression flickered—surprise, maybe a hint of respect—before he recovered with a grin. “That’s hot.”

You gave a faint smirk, still focused on the rifle. “Glad you think so.”

“Still… gotta say, you make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Cleaning rifles?”

“Could think of better ways to spend a Monday, though,” he replied smoothly. “Name’s Hayes. Just transferred last week. Haven’t seen you around before.”

“That’s because I’m not usually stuck in here.”

Hayes tilted his head, looking you over with a speculative glint. “Bet you’re a handful out there. Probably a firecracker with a rifle in your hands.”

A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Something like that.”

“Maybe you could show me sometime,” he said, tone warm and casual, like the suggestion was perfectly reasonable. “Dinner? A drink?”

“Sorry, no. I don’t date.”

He blinked, caught off guard but trying to mask it with a grin. “At all?”

“At all.”

Hayes chuckled under his breath, like he thought you were just playing hard to get. “Guess I’ll have to work on changing your mind.”

You didn’t bother correcting him.

──────────

The armoury was quiet. Just the clean click of metal and the low hum of fluorescent lights as you and Ghost worked your way through the 141’s weapons audit. You were elbow-deep in the official inventory this time—not Johnny’s personal stash or Ghost’s terrifyingly customized sidearms, but the base’s registered loadout.

You reassembled your sidearm on the table, fingers moving with practiced ease. Ghost was beside you, methodically inspecting each rifle, his movements precise and silent. He didn’t speak unless necessary—just nodded once when you handed him a fresh cloth, or tapped the manifest when something didn’t match.

Then came the familiar sound of boots on tile. Hayes again.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he said, voice casual, like he hadn’t made things awkward yesterday.

You didn’t look up. “I work here.”

He gestured to the weapons laid out across the table. “Didn’t you clean these yesterday?”

You finally glanced at him, expression flat. “Those were our private collections. This one’s official.”

Hayes blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Ghost didn’t even pause—just kept cleaning a carbine with slow, deliberate movements.

“You do more than that,” Hayes said, recovering with a smirk. “Got everyone talkin’. Sharpshooter. Tactical genius. Bit of a heartbreaker, too?”

You snapped the slide into place with a sharp click, chambering a round without looking at him. “Only break bones. Not hearts.”

He chuckled. “Come on, don’t be like that. Thought maybe I caught you off guard yesterday. Didn’t mean to come on strong.”

“I wasn’t caught off guard,” you said, finally glancing at him. “I was just being polite.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping low. “How about not polite? Just honest. You and I—drinks, no uniforms, no ranks. Just a man and a woman.”

A beat of silence.

Then Ghost spoke—low, quiet, and lethal.

“She said no.”

Hayes turned, startled. Ghost was still cleaning the rifle, not even looking up, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“I was just talkin’—”

“And now you’re done.”

Hayes hesitated. “Didn’t realize she was—”

“She’s not yours to realize.” Ghost finally looked up, eyes unreadable behind the mask. “Walk away.”

Hayes gave you one last glance—half-apologetic, half-hoping you’d intervene.

You didn’t even blink.

He left.

Ghost set the rifle down, checked the chamber, then resumed the audit like nothing had happened.

You smirked. “You’re always subtle, Simon.”

Ghost didn’t look up. “Subtle works.”

──────────

You were leaning against a truck near the training yard, sipping your water and relishing the rare patch of sun warming your shoulders. Gaz next to you. The morning drills had left your muscles humming, pleasantly sore—the kind of ache that reminded you you were alive and dangerous. The truck’s metal was warm against your back, and for once, the base felt quiet. Peaceful.

And—of course—Hayes was back.

Like a damn boomerang with too much gel in his hair and not enough sense in his head.

He strolled across the yard like he was walking into a bar, not a military base. Aviators on, grin dialed to maximum charm, hands tucked into his vest like he thought it made him look casual.

“Well, well,” he said as he approached, voice syrupy. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were followin’ me.”

You didn’t even move. “You're on my turf, Hayes. Again.”

“Can’t help myself,” he said, leaning an elbow against the truck beside you. “It’s the accent. And the eyes. And the legs, if I’m honest.”

You blinked slowly. “You’re sweet. I don’t date.”

He smirked, undeterred. “Alright, alright. No lines this time. Just a question.”

You didn’t answer. You just raised a brow, sipping your water.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping like he thought it made him sound sincere. “What are the chances a woman like you gives a guy like me a shot?”

Before you could reply with a very blunt zero, Gaz’s voice came in low and dry from across the yard.

“Mate.”

Hayes turned, startled. Gaz’s eyes were fixed on him now. Steady. Unamused.

Hayes tried to laugh. “Hey Gaz.”

“Come on. She told you she doesn’t date,” Gaz muttered, tone flat as concrete.

You bit the inside of your cheek, amused. Hayes was about to learn what it meant to be politely dismantled.

Hayes shrugged it off. “You guys are her babysitters or something?”

Gaz didn’t even blink. “We just take care of each other in 141, you know.” He straightened himself slowly—and Hayes realized, too late, that Gaz was taller than he remembered. Broader. Sharper. “She’s not interested. You’re a sergeant, yeah? Then act like one.”

You saw the flicker of wounded pride in Hayes’s eyes—that moment where ego and reality collided. He straightened his vest, tried to recover.

“I’m just being friendly.”

“You’re being persistent,” Gaz said, stepping forward just enough to make the point. “And this is your last shot to be smart about it.”

Hayes looked between the two of you, chewing his cheek, then scoffed under his breath and backed off again, walking toward the motorpool with his swagger slightly deflated.

Gaz waited until he was out of earshot, then looked at you, lips twitching.

“That the same guy from the armoury?”

You nodded.

“Yep.”

Gaz whistled low. “Boy got a death wish.”

You grinned. “Just wait. Sooner or later, he’s gonna try it in front of Johnny.”

Gaz snorted, grabbing his water bottle. “Oooh, I’m buyin’ popcorn for that.”

You both laughed, the tension melting away, replaced by the easy camaraderie that came from surviving too many missions and knowing exactly who had your back.

──────────

You were tucked in the corner of the mess hall, finishing your lunch and scribbling notes in your field log. The hum of conversation, clatter of trays, and distant laughter from the other tables made a soft backdrop—white noise you’d learned to tune out. Your fork scraped the last bit of rice from the plate as you flipped to a fresh page in your log, pen tapping rhythmically against the paper.

Then the chair across from you scraped loudly.

You didn’t even look up.

“Thought I’d find you here,” came the now-familiar voice.

Hayes.

Of course it was.

He dropped into the seat like he belonged there, tray untouched, grin dialed to maximum charm. “Just a friendly lunch,” he said smoothly. “Unless you’ve got a rule against eating with devastatingly charming sergeants.”

You gave him a deadpan look, pen still poised mid-sentence. “You’re really stubborn, aren’t you?”

That earned you a laugh—annoyingly genuine, like he thought he was winning.

“You know, you keep acting like I’m barking up the wrong tree,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “But you haven’t said you’re taken.”

“I haven’t said I’m not armed, either,” you muttered under your breath, folding your arms.

He opened his mouth to reply—but didn’t get the chance.

A calm voice cut through the room like a steel blade wrapped in velvet.

“Hayes.”

He stiffened. Turned.

You didn’t need to look up. You knew that voice too well.

Captain John Price stood behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the gleam in his eye—the kind that said someone was about to get educated.

“Sir,” Hayes said, jumping up straighter than a boot at inspection.

“You always interrupt other soldiers' meals?” Price asked casually, stepping around the table with the slow, deliberate gait of a man who’d seen too many wars and wasn’t impressed by much anymore.

“N-No, sir. Just thought—”

“Thinking’s a dangerous habit if you don’t know how to do it right,” Price interrupted, voice still calm, but with that edge that made grown men rethink their life choices. “If I heard right—and I know I did—she already told you she doesn’t date.”

Hayes swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—”

“Just drop it, really,” Price said, voice softening just a fraction. “And I tell you this as a fellow man, not a superior officer.”

The mess hall had gone quiet. Forks paused mid-air. Conversations stalled. Even the kitchen staff had stopped clanging pans.

Hayes hesitated, then tried to salvage his pride. “With all due respect, sir, I’ll keep trying until she says yes.”

He smiled—the kind that tried to look confident but landed somewhere between desperate and delusional—and walked away.

Price watched him go, then looked down at you, his grin finally breaking through.

“You’re having fun, am I right?”

You smirked, flipping your log shut. “Yeah, it’s been dull here lately. I need some entertainment.”

Price chuckled, pulling out a chair and sitting beside you. “What if he flirts with you in front of Johnny?”

You took a slow sip from your mug, savouring the moment. “Then the real fun begins.”

Price laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus, you’re the worst, you know that?”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms behind your head. “You lot told me that more than once already.”

──────────

The hangar buzzed with post-op noise. Boots thudded against concrete, gear clanked as it was hauled and unstrapped, and someone in the corner was swearing at a jammed drone case. You stood near one of the open crates with Ghost and Price, talking about nothing and everything—the kind of idle chatter that filled the space between missions.

That’s when he walked in again.

Sergeant Hayes.

Still cocky. Still grinning. Still clueless.

You felt Ghost stiffen beside you like he’d sensed something foul in the air.

“Your shadow’s back,” he muttered without looking.

You sighed, turning just in time to see Hayes beeline toward you—again.

And Johnny?

Oh, he clocked it the moment Hayes entered the room. He was leaning against the side of a Jeep, arms folded across his chest, relaxed as ever—watching.

Hayes sidled up with a smile and gave a mock salute. “Afternoon, LT. Captain,” he nodded to Ghost and Price, then turned to you. “And you—looking deadly as usual.”

Ghost didn’t respond. Just tilted his head, one brow arched behind the mask.

You smiled politely. “Hey, Hayes.”

“I was just saying earlier,” Hayes continued, voice a bit louder now so it’d carry, “you’ve got the whole squad jealous. Walking around looking like that and handling a rifle like it’s part of your arm.”

“Thanks, I guess. I have work to do, so I’ll be over there,” you said to your team and walked away.

Johnny pushed off the Jeep and strolled over, casual as you like.

“Oh aye,” he drawled, clapping the guy on the back like they were best mates. “She’s a proper bonnie, isn’t she?”

Hayes blinked, surprised but pleased by the encouragement. “You’re telling me.”

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” Johnny said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Best sniper in 141.”

“Really?”

“Am I right, Captain?” He turned to Price.

Price didn’t even blink. “Correct.”

Soap nodded seriously. “And her with a sniper rifle is a sight. She’s got that little smirk she does right before the trigger pull. Makes a man weak in the knees. Gaz once called it her ‘execution face.’”

Gaz called out from behind a crate, “It’s terrifying!”

Johnny laughed. “Terrifying and sexy. Like getting strangled by a goddess.”

The sergeant whistled. “Christ. Honestly, if I were her guy, I wouldn’t even be embarrassed if she choked me out. She gets many kills?”

“Bit of a legend, mate. You know she once took out a cartel guy with a whiteboard marker? Just snapped the bloody thing in half and jammed it right up under his jaw. I near cried from pride.”

The sergeant stared, wide-eyed. “No fuckin’ way.”

“Swear on it,” Soap said, eyes wide and completely full of it. “Guy never saw it comin’. We all were walkin’ around half-hard for a week after that. Ghost even grunted. That’s basically a declaration of love from him.”

Ghost looked skyward like he was begging for the strength not to commit murder.

Soap continued, gleeful. “And there was this time in Prague—we’re cornered, right? Low on ammo, squad bleeding out. What’s she do? Grabs a frying pan off some local’s stove and goes medieval on four men. I still hear the sound it made when it hit the last guy.”

The sergeant wheezed a laugh. “That woman is terrifying. And hot. She sounds like a dream.”

“Oh, she is,” Johnny said with a smirk. “You know, she talks in her sleep too. All tactical terms. Heard her mutter somethin’ about C4 and handcuffs once.”

Hayes chuckled. “God, that’s so hot.”

“She’s a demon with a blade too,” he went on. “Clean, fast. Like poetry—if poetry could cut your throat and leave no blood trail. Sexy as hell. I’ve seen seasoned men nearly weep after trainin’ rounds with her.”

“She chewed out Collins the other day and I swear, it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Had me thinkin’ about what else she could do with that mouth.”

Johnny whistled low. “Filthy bastard.”

“I bet she’s wild,” Hayes said. “Like, completely in control. Dominant types like her? Probably ride a guy like a fuckin’ rodeo.”

Johnny hummed. “That’s a proper regal position, innit? Screams power. Suits her. Wouldn’t surprise me if she kept eye contact the whole time. She’s intense like that.”

Hayes laughed, clearly encouraged. “Exactly! Bet she takes her time with a man too—like, builds you up just to ruin you.”

Johnny nodded solemnly. “She’s a tactician, mate. Knows how to make a man beg. She’s got that edge. Not the type to giggle and lie back, nah. She’d have you pinned.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Hayes muttered, already lost in the sauce. “Bet she leaves marks. Like, bruises on your neck, scratches down your back. The type of girl you gotta check a mirror after and go, ‘yeah, I survived that.’”

Johnny gave a proud sigh. “Aye, she is. Got that feral intensity. Like she’d kiss you one second and break your nose the next. Sexy as hell.”

“She got a boyfriend or what?” Hayes asked, voice tinged with hope and nerves.

Johnny pretended to think. “Hmm. Not that I know of.”

Price shot him a look. Ghost glanced at you, then back at Johnny, clearly amused. Even Gaz peeked out from behind the crate, eyebrows raised, surprised by Johnny’s words—like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or brace for impact.

Hayes’ face lit up. “Reckon she’d be into someone like me?”

Johnny’s grin widened. “Mate, I think you’d be her exact type. You know, tall, cocky, zero sense of danger—she’d eat that up.”

“You think you could… maybe put in a word for me?”

“Y’know what,” Soap said, snapping his fingers, “we should ask her now.”

The guy immediately straightened his vest, ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah? You’d… help me out?”

“Of course, brother,” Johnny grinned. “You deserve a shot.”

Price, who was leaning on a crate drinking coffee like the exhausted father of this unhinged family, hold his breath. “It’s like watching a train wreck,” he muttered. “Can’t look away.”

Ghost, arms crossed beside him, added with a low grunt, “Best train wreck I’ve ever seen.”

“Just how many of those you’ve seen?” Gaz asked.

“Many.”

They made their way over. You blinked as Soap called your name casually.

“Aye, love,” he said sweetly. “Got a question for you.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

He gestured to the hopeful sergeant. “Would you be interested in goin’ on a date with this fine lad? Seems real keen.”

You stared between them. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Oh, come one, why not?” Hayes asked.  

Soap pretended to be surprised. “Shite, I forgot. We’re married!”

Hayes froze, lips parting in stunned silence. Price shook his head, biting back a grin. Ghost clapped the sergeant once on the back—harder than necessary.

“You what?” Hayes managed, staring at you in horror.

Johnny threw an arm around your waist, grinning like he’d just won a game. “Hell of a woman, that one. I caught myself apologizing to the headboard this morning."

“You’re a cunt, Soap,” he muttered, turning to him.

Johnny laughed. “I get that a lot. Don’t feel bad. You’re not the first one to fantasise about her.”

Gaz added under his breath, “You just did it to her husband. Loudly.”

The poor bastard groaned and walked off, cheeks flaming.

Johnny looked after him fondly. “Think he’ll ask for a transfer?”

Ghost muttered, “He better.”

You elbowed Johnny, trying to hide your grin. “You’re an arse.”

He kissed your temple and smiled devilishly. “You were the one who didn’t tell him about being married just for the entertainment, Mrs. MacTavish.”

“That ‘sergeant MacTavish’" you said smiling devilishly. "And yeah, base was dull lately,” you laughed a little. “It was fun, seeing his face when you told him we’re married.”

“It was fun to work him up a little, just to shatter his dreams.”

“What do you mean ‘work him up’? What did you tell him, Johnny?”

“Truth. Mostly.” He let his arm drop from your waist, reached beneath the collar of his shirt, and tugged out the chain around his neck—dog tags clinking softly against two gold bands threaded between them.

You raised your brow, smirking. “You had them with your tags this whole time?”

If it were up to Simon, no one—absolutely no one—would know about your wedding.

He’d argued for secrecy with the same quiet intensity he brought to combat: calm, firm, immovable. And you understood. You were both operatives, always in danger, always one mission away from vanishing. The fewer people who knew, the safer it was.

But you’d insisted. Not on a ceremony. Not on rings, flowers, or anything remotely traditional. Just one thing: that the rest of your squad be there.

Because 141 wasn’t just your team. They were your family. The only real one either of you had.

So, you exchanged vows in the office—quiet, simple, surrounded by the people who’d bled beside you, who’d carried you through fire, hell, and back again. No fanfare. Just truth.

Gaz had cried a little. Soap made a crude joke about honeymoon handcuffs. Price clapped Simon on the shoulder and said, “about damn time.”

But outside that room? The rest of the world didn’t know.

Not Laswell. Not command. Not the base. To them, you and Ghost were just colleagues. Maybe close. Maybe flirty. But nothing more.

Which meant you got hit on. A lot.

Being the only woman in the famous 141 made you a magnet for attention you never asked for. You were respected, sure—but that didn’t stop the occasional idiot from trying to “score.”

You never encouraged it. Never flirted back. Never gave them a reason.

But some men couldn’t take a hint. Or a direct “no.” Or even a blunt “I’m off the market.”

This particular one? He was persistent.

He’d tried a few times already—always with that same smug grin, that same overconfident swagger, like he thought he was doing you a favour by showing interest.

You’d shut him down. Repeatedly.

──────────

The gym wasn’t empty, but it felt that way—just the echo of iron hitting rubber, low music thudding from the old speaker near the punching bags, and the rhythmic clink of you adjusting plates on the barbell.

Soap was nearby, perched on a bench after finishing his set, towel around his neck and grinning like he always did when the endorphins hit.

You rolled your wrists, about to start again, when you heard the scrape of boots too close to your mat.

“Didn’t know this base kept its weapons out in plain sight.”

You paused. Didn’t even look at him. You’d heard better lines from rookies trying to impress at the pub.

“Didn’t know this base allowed stray dogs either,” you replied, casually checking your grip.

That earned a laugh—not from him, but from Soap, who was now sitting up, already sensing blood in the water.

“Easy now,” the man said, stepping into view with the confidence of someone who thought he was charming.

He looked like he’d seen a few deployments. Not new—just transferred. Tan still clinging to his jawline, hair a little too neat. The kind of guy who’d already scoped out the chain of command and decided he didn’t need to be afraid of any of it.

“Just paying a compliment. You’ve got a hell of a deadlift, Sergeant.”

You gave him a flat look.

“And you’ve got a hell of a death wish, apparently.”

Soap made a strangled noise, like he was trying very hard not to laugh too hard.

The soldier, undeterred, just smirked.

“Look, I’m not here to step on toes. Just saying—if you ever want to get off base for a night, I know a few places. Decent drinks, good music…”

Soap cleared his throat loudly.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

The guy blinked.

“What, is she spoken for?”

Soap smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“To you?”

“No.”

The man shrugged.

“Well, I don’t see a ring. So, unless there’s something I’m missing…” He gave you a slow once-over.

You didn’t flinch. Just stared at him like you were already imagining the paperwork from his impending hospital visit.

Soap, however, lost it.

He burst out laughing. A deep, genuine bark that turned into wheezing as he slapped his thigh. The soldier frowned, clearly not getting the joke.

“Oh mate,” Johnny managed between laughs. “Better tell your mum to get a casket suit tailored. Black. Something nice. Open casket’s out, though, so maybe it doesn’t matter.”

That finally gave the man a pause. A visible falter in his smug posture.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You stood slowly, rolling your shoulders back. The silence between words did more damage than shouting ever could.

“It means,” you said coolly, “that if you keep poking at things you don’t understand, you're going to find out why I don’t date, and it would be painful.”

He opened his mouth, probably to argue—but Soap stood too.

“Friendly advice, mate,” he added, voice low now. No laughter. No smile. “Back off while you still can walk away on your own legs.”

The man held your gaze for one second too long before scoffing under his breath and walking off—muttering something about overprotective teammates and power trips as he disappeared into the weight racks.

The moment he was gone, Soap let out a long breath and shook his head.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

──────────

The mess hall was loud—metal trays clattering, boots stomping, laughter echoing off high ceilings.

You moved through the food line with your usual efficiency: potatoes, protein, questionable greens. Just behind you, Gaz grabbed a bottle of water and leaned in slightly.

“Skip the ‘meat’ today,” he muttered. “It moved when I poked it.”

You smirked. “Thanks for the warning.”

You were halfway to the tables when he appeared again—same cocky stride, same smug grin, like he’d been practicing his smoulder in a bathroom mirror.

“Well, well,” the soldier drawled, stepping just slightly into your path. “Didn’t think I’d see you twice in one day. Lucky me.”

You didn’t stop walking—just sidestepped him without even glancing his way. “Still alive,” you muttered. “Shame.”

He kept pace beside you, clearly thinking persistence was charming. “Thought I’d offer again—drinks, maybe dinner. Could be fun.”

Kyle slowed beside you, tray in hand, eyes on the man now with a sharpness that cut the warmth from his expression.

“Mate,” he said, casually but firm. “You need to stop.”

The soldier looked him over. “I don’t remember asking you.”

Gaz raised his eyebrows. “No, but you’ll wish you had.”

The man scoffed. “Jesus, what is it with you lot? She’s not wearing a ring. Not glued to someone’s side. I don’t see the problem.”

Gaz stepped in front of him now, full body between you and the soldier, posture relaxed but unmistakably ready.

“You don’t see a lot of things. But let me make this clear,” he said, voice dropping low. “She’s not available. She’s not interested. And you? You’re skating on thin fucking ice.”

The soldier bristled, puffing up slightly, still trying to save face.

He backed up, muttering something under his breath before retreating across the room. But just before he turned away completely, he threw one last glance over his shoulder—smirk back in place, like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll try until you say yes.”

You didn’t even look at him. Just shifted your tray, voice flat and final. “Just go away.”

He lingered for a beat, like he thought that was clever. Then turned and walked off, boots heavy against the tile.

Gaz watched him go, jaw tight. “Fucking hell,” he muttered.

You didn’t smile. Just grabbed your water bottle. “He’s got a mouth on him,” you said.

“Yeah,” Gaz agreed, wiping his face with the towel again. “Shame about all the teeth he’ll be missin’ soon.”

──────────

The supply room smelled faintly of dust and oil—a quiet sanctuary of order amid the chaos of the base. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a clinical glow on rows of crates and shelves stacked with everything from ammunition to medical kits.

You crouched by a pallet, clipboard in hand, marking off serial numbers as Price stood nearby—methodical, steady—inspecting a row of sealed cases.

The calm shattered with the scrape of boots against concrete.

“Didn’t expect to find you stuck back here with supplies,” came the familiar voice, swaggering in with the confidence of a man used to getting what he wanted.

You didn’t turn around. “And yet, here we are.”

His chuckle was light, edged with arrogance. “Bet the lads don’t appreciate you enough. A girl like you—pretty, sharp—shouldn’t be buried under boxes. I’d take you out for a pint if you weren’t so busy.”

Price’s pen halted mid-mark. His gaze shifted slowly from the shelf to where you stood, unbothered, clipboard in hand.

You rose smoothly, quiet cool radiating off you like armour. “I’m good, thanks.”

He took a step closer, undeterred. “Well, unless you’ve got a ring on your finger, I don’t see why not. Fair game, right?”

Price turned deliberately, eyes locking on soldier with a calm that spoke volumes. The air shifted—tension tightening like a coiled spring.

“I admire your stubbornness, soldier,” Price said evenly, voice low and measured. “But she’s spoken for. It’s not a fair game. Not with her.”

Wells raised an eyebrow, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. “Spoken for? Don’t see anyone hovering around her but her squadmates.”

Price shifted his weight forward, the faintest tightening of his jaw beneath the stoic facade. “You’re tempting fate here. And I’m not sure who you should be more afraid of—her, or her man.”

The soldier laughed, brittle and forced.

“Oh, thanks, Captain. Real sweet of you, putting me next to him as a threat,” you said smiling.

Price’s expression didn’t change. “I call things as they are.”

The weight of that simple statement hung in the stale air—heavy, final.

You caught the corner of Price’s mouth twitch—an almost imperceptible smirk—as he turned and walked past the soldier, his shoulder brushing the man’s arm with quiet finality.

“Carry on with your day, Staff Sergeant. Somewhere else.”

The man muttered something under his breath, sensing the unspoken warning beneath the words, and made himself scarce.

You exchanged a glance with Price, a flicker of relief and quiet amusement passing between you.

“That was subtle,” you said, returning to your clipboard.

“Was it?” Price replied, picking up his pen as if nothing had happened. “I thought I was being polite.”

──────────

The base mess hall buzzed with the usual dinner time noise—cutlery clinking, boots scuffing against worn tile, and soldiers swapping stories that danced carefully around classified details. The warm hum of conversation blended with the hiss of the coffee machine and the occasional clatter of trays being stacked at the far end.

You sat at one of the long steel tables, tray barely touched, idly pushing rice around with your fork with Price to your left and Soap and Gaz opposite to him. Both were deep in a heated debate about the longevity of rations during long ops.

“Dried mango lasts longer,” Gaz declared with the authority of a man who’d survived hell and back on little else.

Soap scoffed, shaking his head. “Beef jerky. You could drop it in acid and it’d still be edible. Can’t say that about your sad little fruit strips.”

You caught only half of their bickering, your mind elsewhere, when he slid into the seat in front of you.

Sergeant-something-you-didn’t-care-to-remember.

He leaned in, voice low and slick, like this was some ramshackle pub’s meet-cute instead of a military mess hall. “You know,” he said, eyes fixed on you with unsettling confidence, “a girl like you must be lonely, surrounded by all this testosterone.”

Soap nearly choked on his protein bar. Gaz’s brows shot up so high you half-expected them to disappear into his hairline.

You blinked, genuinely surprised by the audacity. “I’m really not.”

The soldier’s grin widened, clearly mistaking your indifference for flirtation. “Bet a pretty thing like you hears this all the time. But I mean it. You deserve better than trigger-happy lads who only bark orders. You need someone who actually sees you.”

Gaz attempted to intervene, bless him—voice gentle but firm. “Mate. Walk away.”

Soap wiped his mouth, barely stifling a laugh. “Seriously. This ain’t the hill you wanna die on.”

The sergeant chuckled, undeterred. “I mean, you can’t blame me, right? She’s got this whole dangerous beauty thing going. Must be hard not to get noticed.”

You lifted your chin, voice cool and steady. “I’m very used to being noticed. But I don’t usually get this kind of persistent enthusiasm from someone with that low survival instinct.”

He laughed, thinking you were joking. “You’re sharp. I like that. Real fire in you. Bet it’s hard to find a man who can handle that, huh?”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Price slowly lower his fork. He fixed the man with a long, unimpressed stare. “Son, you should really back off now.”

The soldier’s grin didn’t falter. “Oh, come on. I’m just saying—someone like her? Beautiful. Strong. Deadly, yeah, but I like that. She’s a real catch. And by the way she’s smirking at me—”

“She’s smirking,” Simon said flatly from behind him, voice cold as ice, “because she’s imagining how long it’d take to dislocate your jaw.”

The soldier snapped upright, turning sharply to see Ghost looming over him like a gathering storm in fatigues and a skull mask, two steaming mugs of coffee balanced carefully in his hands and then he placed them both in front of you.

“I just thought—”

“Thought what?” Ghost interrupted, tone calm but deadly patient. “That she was interested? Despite turning you down every time? Despite the warnings her squadmates gave you?”

Soap shoved a forkful of food in his mouth, trying to hide the grin spreading across his face like this was the best show on base. Gaz leaned back, sipping his drink with the smug air of a man who’d seen this exact scene play out before—and loved every second of the rerun.

“I just compliment her…” the soldier muttered, trying to hold his ground.

Ghost tilted his head slowly, voice razor-sharp. “Don’t push your luck. This is your chance to back off.”

The soldier hesitated, then muttered, “Look, I just think a woman like her—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Soap muttered, dropping his fork onto his tray. “He’s gonna die.”

Price groaned, shaking his head. “Paperwork’s gonna pile up again.”

Ghost stepped closer, voice dropping lower—dark, unflinching: “If I see you so much as look at my wife again, I’ll make sure your remains are scattered across five continents—and I’ll bring the teeth to your mum personally.”

Silence fell like a heavy blanket. The soldier paled visibly, mouth opening and closing as if to speak but finding no words. Nearby tables had quieted, the whole mess hall suddenly aware of the charged atmosphere.

You leaned back, beaming up at your terrifying husband with a wicked smile. “Oh, you’re so possessive. It warms my heart.”

Without breaking his icy stare from the soldier, Ghost added casually: “In fact—I’ll gouge the eyes out of anyone who looks at her.”

You hummed, voice syrupy sweet, fingers tracing a slow line up his arm. “That’s so damn hot, baby. Keep that up and I swear, I’ll throw you onto this table right now and fuck your brains into oblivion.”

Soap let out a strangled cough. Gaz choked on his drink, coughing through laughter. Price murmured into his coffee mug, “Jesus.”

Ghost didn’t blink. “I’m already counting down to later.”

You gave him a slow once-over, playful and unapologetic. “So am I, Lieutenant.”

“That’s the weirdest foreplay I’ve ever seen,” Gaz muttered.

The poor sergeant stumbled backward, stammering an apology before practically sprinting from the mess like it was on fire.

Once he was gone, Soap let out a low whistle. “He’s gonna piss himself the next time he sees you.”

Ghost just grunted, voice rough but calm. “Could’ve been worse.”

A scream split the air like gunfire.

“JOHN!”

The axe nearly slipped from his hands as his heart slammed against his ribs. That wasn’t annoyance. That was panic.

He dropped the axe without a word and sprinted toward the house, boots thudding across the grass. The door slammed against the wall as he tore it open. The stairs blurred—he took them two at a time, braced for blood. For broken bones. For something bad.

He kicked the bedroom door open with a thud, shoulder tense, eyes already scanning for threats.

You were perched on a wooden chair by the wardrobe—barefoot, hair damp from your shower, towel barely clinging to your body, eyes wild and locked on the floor like it was a warzone.

“There,” you hissed through clenched teeth. “By the bed.”

He looked. Paused. Squinted.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!”

“…That’s a spider.”

“I hate fucking spiders, John.”

He squinted at you, then down at the spider again. Took a long, deep breath. “You are a trained operative.”

“And?”

“You’ve cleared compounds solo in pitch-black conditions.”

“Mm-hm.”

He crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and tilted his head. “You once knocked a guy out cold with a stapler.”

“John.”

“You jumped from a chopper into enemy territory with a smile on your face.”

“John.”

“You led a raid with cracked ribs and told no one till it was over.”

“JOHN! Just get rid of it already!”

“I’ve been shot at. Blown up. Had a machete thrown at my head once,” he said, tone completely serious. “But nothing prepares a man for the scream of a highly trained, fully lethal woman who’s just spotted a spider in her bedroom.”

“Don’t be fucking smug or I will slit your fucking throat in your sleep.”

He lifted both brows, crouched beside the closet with exaggerated care. “Brave words coming from a woman standing on furniture because she’s afraid of a spider.”

“It was coming towards me!”

“It’s the size of a coin.”

“It looked bigger when it moved.”

“You know what else moves? Grenades. You don’t scream like that for grenades.” He reached out and scooped the spider up with his bare hand.

You made a noise between a yelp and a gag.

John stood up, opened the window, and casually flicked the spider into the garden.

“Handled,” he said, brushing his hands off on his jeans like he’d just completed a hostage negotiation.

You clambered down from the chair with all the grace of a jungle cat who’d been startled by a cucumber, arms crossed and scowl deep.

“You’re such an arsehole,” you muttered adjusting your towel.

“Bit dramatic,” he said, heading for the doorway, every inch of him radiating smug victory.

“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

He was already halfway down the hall, his heavy footfalls echoing faintly as he descended the stairs.

“No, I’m not,” he called back without missing a beat, voice soaked in that unshakeable Price confidence.

You glared at the door frame, lips twisting.

“Fucker.”

From downstairs: a low, amused chuckle.

──────────

You stood in the living room with his pillow clutched under one arm and a folded blanket in your hands. The fireplace cast a soft orange glow across the couch, now freshly prepared for exile.

With a dramatic flourish, you dropped the pillow onto the cushions and smoothed the blanket like you were tucking in a child.

Then you turned toward the hallway and raised your voice just enough for it to carry.

“Have a good night, you fucking bastard.”

From the kitchen, you heard him scoff. “Oh, I will. In our bed. Next to you.”

You smirked. “Negative, Captain. You’re on couch duty tonight. That smugness has consequences.”

He appeared in the doorway a moment later, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he was planning a military op. “You're still mad about the spider?”

“I’m mad about the tone, John. The gloating. The fact you were enjoying it way too much.”

“I wasn't gloating,” he said, stepping into the room. “I was making light of the situation. It's called morale.”

You cocked a brow. “Morale?”

“Yeah. Thought operatives were trained to maintain it under stress.”

“Oh, you want stress? Try getting ambushed by a spider while nearly naked.”

John’s lips twitched, barely holding back a grin. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

“Still. Doesn’t seem fair to punish me for your lack of situational awareness.”

You blinked at him. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I did.”

He took a step closer. You stepped back, bumping into the couch.

“Stay right there, Captain.”

He gave you one last warning smile. “Don’t give orders unless you’re prepared to enforce them.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Touch me and I’ll bite.”

That grin of his turned downright wicked. “Promise?”

“You wish,” you snapped, chin tilting defiantly. “I’ve taken down men twice your size.”

“And yet you’re cornered by me.”

“Only because I let you,” you said, keeping your back straight and voice sharp, even as he closed the distance.

In one smooth motion, he lunged. You shrieked—more in laughter than protest—as he tossed you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“John!”

“Hmm?”

“Put me down!”

“Nope.”

“You are not getting lucky tonight,” you snapped, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. A very furious sack of potatoes. “Not even remotely.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response—just adjusted his grip, one arm tightening around your thighs, the other reaching casually over to pluck his pillow from the couch and started to walk to the stairs.

“Swear to God, Price—”

He chuckled, and your stomach dropped because you knew that laugh. Then his hand, that fucking hand, slid higher under the hem of your shorts. Warm, rough fingers brushed against the crease of your inner thigh. You jerked in his hold, breath catching.

“John—”

“Mhm?” he murmured like he hadn’t just stolen the air from your lungs.

His finger hovered there, barely brushing the thin fabric—one deliberate point of contact that had your whole body twitching with need. He moved with devastating intent—just one, sliding over your clothed heat again and again, slow and sure, until your hips twitched helplessly into his touch. You bit your lip to keep from moaning, but the sound that escaped anyway was high and broken.

“Oh, that’s the sound I wanted,” he muttered, voice husky, lips brushing against your thigh. “Thought I’d have to work harder.”

“You’re insufferable,” you managed to choke out, but your hand betrayed you—clutching at his back, fist twisting into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He rubbed slowly—absent, lazy—like he was bored and needed something to fidget with. One finger, right over the fabric, barely any pressure at all. Just enough to tease. Just enough to start.

Fucking bastard.

He knew your rhythm, the one that made your toes curl and your spine arch, the one that made your mouth fall open before your mind even caught up.

“Didn’t even need to try, did I?” he said, like he wasn’t currently breaking every single wall you were trying to hold up. “I’m flattered.”

“Fuck you—” you growled, trying to push yourself upright—but your body had other ideas. Your thighs clenched around his hand. Your breath stuttered. His finger kept moving, just so, like he had all the time in the world.

You whimpered, biting your lip, pride in shambles, trying to stop from moaning aloud.

He didn’t miss it.

“Look at you, trying so hard not to make a sound. Sweet, really.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your hips jerked. You needed more. Your pride screamed at you, but your body was louder.

And then he stopped.

No warning. Just gone.

You gasped. “Don’t stop now!”

“What happened to ‘not getting lucky tonight’?”

“We both know I was lying,” you growled.

He laughed, deep and full of wicked joy. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast.”

“I didn’t fold.”

“You’re over my shoulder, soaking wet, grinding against my bloody hand like you’re trying to start a fire. You did fold.”

You fumbled for a response and came up empty.

“Exactly,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He gave your arse a playful smack, just enough to make you twitch and curse, and kept walking like nothing happened.

“John…” you moan desperately. “Please.”

“No. You don’t come like this.”

You growled. “You absolute bastard—”

“Save your voice, sweetheart,” he said again, that awful, wonderful smirk thick in his voice. “I’ve got better plans.”

He gave your thigh a light pat. Reassuring. Infuriating. Final.

You writhed, breath heaving, nerves screaming. “You can’t just stop.”

“I can. And I did.” He adjusted his grip, shifting you higher on his shoulder with casual strength. He pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder, crossed the threshold, and kicked it shut with a solid thud.

Stalked toward the bed and tossed you onto it—not rough, but commanding, like he knew exactly what he was doing with you.

You landed with a soft bounce, hair a mess, shirt askew, thighs parted just enough to tempt him.

Chest rising, pulse racing, breath catching.

John stood there at the foot of the bed, arms folded over his chest, shirt rumpled, wedding ring catching the low light—smug, solid, devastating.

That maddening smirk stretched across his face like he’d just won something.

“Still think I’m sleeping on the couch tonight?”

You glared, sitting up on your knees, flushed and flustered but far from surrendering.

“Take your bloody pants off, John.”

He cocked a brow, fingers already teasing the buckle of his belt.

“Say please again,” he murmured, voice low and dark.

Your eyes dropped, your thighs clenched, and the word slipped out like a prayer:

“…please.”

John’s brow lifted just a little—teasing, taunting—and then, with deliberate slowness, he slid the leather free.

The sharp clink of the buckle coming undone sent a jolt straight through you.

That sound alone made your thighs press together.

Everyone in 141 knew about you and Price—obviously since you two got married few months back. The whole squad was there, along with a few of your family members. No one else. You didn’t need a big party to celebrate your marriage—and honestly, you didn’t want one. Not the show. Not the crowd. Especially not for people neither of you cared about.

You kept it your secret and wanted to maintain it as such as long as it was possible. So, when it was just the five of you tucked away in the private barracks only you had access to, you were John and Y/N. No ranks. No protocol. But once you stepped outside the rec room and back onto base, he was the captain, and you were the sergeant.

Unfortunately, secrecy comes with a price.

Soldiers on base would turn their heads as you passed. Whistles. Catcalls. You let it roll off like water on steel—cool as a cucumber. Eventually, you knew you’ll earn a reputation—cold, stand-offish. Maybe they’ll think you are a bitch. Maybe they’ll whisper you swing the other way. Either way, fine by you. If it made them leave you alone, you’ll welcome the assumptions.

Things began to settle—slowly. But every time reinforcements were rotated in from another base, the cycle started all over again. And eventually, you learned to live with it.

──────────

The new batch of soldiers had a very specific brand of stubborn when it came to you. Every time you stepped out of the private barracks, they found you. Like they were waiting. Fucking bloodhounds chasing a fox.

Naturally, most of their crap came when you were alone.

But sometimes—like today—you had company.

The base had just rotated in fresh units. Fresh boots. Fresh egos. You were walking back from the range with Gaz—sleeves rolled, rifle slung across your chest, boots kicking up dry concrete—when two of them passed and immediately slowed.

“Damn,” one muttered loud enough to catch your ear. “Didn’t know the range came with eye candy.”

The other chuckled, and looked at your nametag, “Sarge Y/L/N, right? You single?”

“No,” you answered, flat and sharp. No warmth. No pause. No smile. You kept walking, treating them like shadows on the wall.

“Come on…” one started, reaching for the usual charm—

Gaz cut in, eyes forward, voice cool. “She said no. Which part don’t you understand?”

The soldiers stalled and you and Gaz didn’t spare them a single glance.

“You gonna tell Price?” he asked after a beat.

“Tell him what? That someone tried to flirt?” You adjusted your sling with quiet, deadly grace. “He’ll ask why I left the guy breathing.”

Gaz snorted. “Fair point.” Then, under his breathe he added: “Poor bastard doesn’t know he’s flirting with an apex predator.”

You smirked. “I’m a very sweet girl, and you know it.”

That broke him. Gaz let out a laugh so loud, so unapologetic, it echoed down the corridor like thunder.

──────────

Same bastard. Same smirk. Same overinflated sense of self-worth.

This time, it was the mess hall. Early lunch. You and Soap had just wrapped a morning of drills and debriefs—sweaty, half-starved, and too damn tired to play nice.

You slid onto one of the long steel benches, tray in hand, already eyeing the sad excuse for mashed potatoes, when you heard it:

“Well, if it isn’t the prettiest sergeant on base.”

Without missing a beat, Soap chirped, “Aw, cheers, pal—but ye’re no’ my type. Bit too much dick for me.”

You snorted.

Soap blinked slow, grin stretching wide—feral.

“She’s taken, mate,” he said, tone still light, but sharp as a blade. “So, unless ye fancy a busted nose—jog on, aye?”

The soldier shrugged, still cocky. “I don’t see a ring.”

Soap laughed, but it wasn’t amusement—it was warning. “That’s ‘cause the lad she’s with doesn’t need one. Loyalty’s not somethin’ she needs reminding of.”

You stabbed your fork into the potatoes. “If I had a quid for every guy on this base who thought I was up for grabs, I’d have my own damn armoury by now.”

The soldier smirked. “You’ve got bite. I like that.”

Soap leaned back with a whistle. “She’s got bite an’ aim, mate. Ye keep pushin’, you’ll end up as a cautionary tale.”

You finally turned in your seat, cool and steady. “I don’t date.”

He chuckled, as if you’d flirted back. “Hey, I’m charming. You’ll cave eventually.”

Soap scoffed. “Aye, right. And I’m the bloody Queen o’ England.”

The guy shrugged, strutted off—still tossed you a wink on the way out. You didn’t return it.

There was a beat of silence before Soap leaned closer, muttering over a bite of sad-looking mash, “Swear tae God, are they pumpin’ pheromones into the bloody air ducts now?”

You sighed. “That’s the fourth one this week. Did I miss the mass women extinction event?”

Soap snorted. “Can’t wait to tell Price about this one.”

“Don’t,” you said calmly. „No need.”

──────────

The weight room was mostly empty. Clanging metal and the low hum of ventilation were the only sounds. You’d just finished your training, sweat cooling against your skin, muscles quietly throbbing.

Nearby, Ghost was packing up—methodical and silent, folding gear with practiced ease.

A voice sliced through the quiet: smooth, cocky, familiar. “Well, well, Sergeant. Fancy seeing you here. Must be fate.”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just focused on tightening your boot laces.

Ghost didn’t glance up, didn’t pause. His voice was low and clipped. “Fuck off.”

The soldier blinked, then looked at you with that same irritating smile.

You straightened slowly, turning just enough to meet his gaze. “You heard my Lt.”

His smirk widened, like he’d earned some twisted badge of honour. “Till next time,” he offered, with a casual nod—and walked away still grinning, like he’d won something.

──────────

The mess hall was packed. Midday rush in full swing—trays clattering, boots thudding, the sharp sting of burnt coffee slicing through the haze of overcooked meat. You and the rest of 141 were wrapping up lunch, empty trays in hand, weaving through tables toward the return line.

A rare lull. A sit-down meal with questionable mash and Soap swearing a wild haggis once chased him across the moors. You were mid-snort at Ghost’s deadpan, “Drop what you takin’, Johnny. Or take half,” when Soap’s expression changed. His steps slowed, tray tilted in one hand, mouth tugging between dread and amusement.

You arched a brow. “What now? Another haggis sighting?”

Soap didn’t answer. Just jerked his chin toward the far end of the mess line.

And there he was.

Same bloody soldier. Same cocky grin. Same swagger that belonged on a recruitment poster. This time, no sidelong glances or low remarks—he was marching straight toward your group. You followed his line of sight—and watched, dumbfounded, as he walked right to John. He stopped in front of him, stiff posture, eyes locked on your Captain like he was about to challenge him to single combat.

You stared. “He’s not—”

“Jesus wept—he is,” Soap confirmed gleefully.

The guy cleared his throat. Too loud. Too formal. “Sir,” he began, addressing John with a respectful nod. “Permission to ask your sergeant out.”

“Which one?” John asked, amused, glancing at the rest of you with calculated ease. “I’ve got three.”

The soldier relaxed slightly, cracking a smile.

“The cute one.”

Gaz blinked hard. Ghost muttered, lethal and low, “Fucking moron.”

“Told you I’m not into you,” Soap snorted, half-joking—but no one listened.

Price didn’t blink. Arms folded. Jaw tight. Eyes narrow—debriefing sharp. “Why ask me and not her?”

“I did,” the soldier replied, puffing up like a rooster. “Got turned down. Figured maybe it’s orders—fraternization and all. She’s persistent. Figured I’d clear it proper.”

“Persistent?” you echoed, voice like steel. Head tilted. “You think that’s code for ‘try harder?’”

Soap made a strangled noise—half laugh, half dying cough. “God, yer confidence is bulletproof.”

Price’s tone dropped low. Calm, dangerous. “And what makes you think I’ll grant permission?”

The soldier swallowed. “I thought maybe she’s scared to step outta line, sir.”

You snorted and said sarcastically, “Yeah. That sounds like me.”

Ghost muttered, “Textbook rule-follower.”

Price’s jaw shifted slightly, teeth clicking together once. “She isn’t afraid of breaking rules.” He stepped forward—just enough to shrink the distance between them, his shadow catching the edge of the soldier’s boots. “But she is taken.”

The soldier frowned. “I’ve heard,” he admitted. “But I figured that was just her way of playin’ unavailable.”

Soap clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle another laugh. Gaz looked like he wanted to crawl under the table from second-hand embarrassment.

Price’s slow, dangerous grin appeared—the one you’d seen before a kneecap-shot interrogation. “She told you she’s taken.” He took one step. “And you still insisted?”

“Yes, sir,” the guy nodded, bold as ever. “Firecracker like her is worth the fight.”

A beat passed.

Then came the flash in Price’s eyes. That territorial glint. “Yeah,” he said, voice like gravel and flame, “my wife is a real spitfire.”

For a heartbeat, the mess hall fell into stunned silence. A dropped spoon clattered to the floor. Someone audibly gasped. Every nearby table stopped pretending they weren’t listening.

“...Sir?” the poor guy croaked.

Price tilted his head, that smile never reaching his eyes. “Still feel like fighting for her?”

“No, sir. My mistake, sir. I just… her name tag says Y/L/N, and…”

You stepped forward, voice clipped and professional. “We were keeping our personal life private.”

Soap exploded with laughter. “We told ye, mate. Should’ve listened.”

Gaz shook his head, letting out a low whistle. “Askin’ captain for permission to date his missus? That’s just… tragic.”

The soldier—finally realising how deeply he’d fucked up—slunk off, disappearing into the crowd.

Price turned toward you slowly, his expression softening as his eyes met yours. The hard line of his jaw eased, and one brow lifted in teasing challenge. “How many’ve thrown themselves at you before this genius?”

You didn’t even pause. “A few.”

Gaz snorted. “Half the bloody base.”

Ghost added flatly, “More like the whole damned place.”

Price stepped closer, crowding into your space, squad still around, the entire mess hall still watching. He slid a hand to your waist like it belonged there, like it always had, with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done it a hundred times in private—but this time, in full view of everyone.

Then he kissed you.

Slow. Sure. No hesitation.

Not a show—but a message.

The kind of kiss that said mine without a single word.

When he pulled back, he didn’t look at anyone else—just you. You grinned, tilting your head. “Making a statement, are we?”

His grin widened. “Wasn’t a statement, love. That was a warning.” Voice low, eyes gleaming. “I’m takin’ you home early today. And starting now, you’re wearing your wedding ring.”

You smirked. “So do you.”

And then—like declaring it once wasn’t enough, like just saying ‘my wife’ and kissing you didn’t scratch the itch of possession—he reached for your Velcro name tag. With one smooth motion, he tore it clean off your uniform.

Everyone watching froze.

Price pulled his own tag from his chest and pressed it into place on yours. Firm. Final.

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Smooth,” you said with a laugh.

He leaned close, voice a murmur only for you. “Mine.”

Ghost, still unfazed, muttered “Domestic. Makes me sick.”

Gaz laughed. “No one on this base will come near her now. Not even with a ten-foot pole.” And he was right. After that moment— No flirting. No approaches. Not even a stare.

They all knew, whole base.

The truck peeled in through the dust, Rudy barely stopping before Soap pulled the passenger door open, shoving Hassan in like luggage. “Move it, dickhead.”

Alejandro sat in the front seat, and Ghost went on the other side, pushing Hassan to the middle between him and Soap.

There were no more seats. Fuck!

Soap’s brows lifted. “Looks like it’s me or the roof, Sergeant.” He leaned back with arms open like a bastard in a brothel. “C’mon, leannan, dinnae be shy now.”

Alejandro barked from the front, “¡Rápido! We need to move!”

You huffed, slung your rifle to your back, and climbed in, swinging a leg over Soap and straddling him quickly. Thighs on either side, the clatter of gear between you.

See?” Soap smirked, hands ghosting your hips. “Fits like a bloody dream.”

That’s when Rudy slammed the gas.

You were thrown forward, chest-first—straight into Soap’s face. You caught yourself at the last second, one palm slamming into the back of the seat and the other on his chest. Your vest damn near broke his nose.

Soap’s eyes flew wide for a split second. His hand gripped your hip—steadying, not groping, but it was a hot, firm grasp. Your thighs cinched tighter on instinct, trying to keep your balance.

You stayed there, just for a moment. The chaos outside, the growl of the truck, the jostle of equipment all melted under the intense proximity. Your breath puffed against his lips.

Soap gave you a slow, crooked smile.

“Not the worst seating arrangement I’ve had,” he said loudly, voice thick with smug delight. “If we crash at least I’ll go oot wi’ a bonnie lass on ma lap an’ a face full o’ prime gear.”

From behind the wheel, Rudy muttered without missing a beat, "Jesucristo, hermano..."

You glanced down at Soap, a smirk curling at the corner of your lips. “Say ‘gear’ like you meant to say it.”

“I did,” he said quickly. “…Mostly.”

Ghost groaned, “Do you two ever stop flirting? I feel like the third wheel on a hostage-themed honeymoon.”

“Could always jump out, Lt.”

“Tempting.”

“You two look so professional,” Hassan started dryly looking dismissively at you and Soap, his lip curled in mocking smirk. “No wonder the Wes—”

You didn’t let him finish. Your hand moved with practiced precision—gun out of your thigh holster in a single pull, angled just under Hassan’s jaw.

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t need to.

“One more word,” you said coldly, “and I’ll make a skylight in your skull.”

Hassan froze. Mouth shut. Silence dropped over the cab like a stone.

Soap exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the gun, then back to you. “You’re terrifying, lass.” He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to a husky rasp. “But I’ll admit… it’s dead sexy.”

Your lips twitched, ever so slightly, “I swear to God, Soap, if I feel you getting hard, I will strangle you.”

“With yer gear I hope.”

“Dios mio,” Alejandro snorted.

You gave Soap a look that could fell a tree—if not for the amused smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “You’re so unreformable, MacTavish, it physically hurts my brain.”

He wiggled his eyebrows, “And yet ye climbed on top o’ me without a second thought. Admit it—I’m yer favourite bad decision”

The walk back to the 141 barracks was calm, if a little quiet. Long day. Longer mission. But you’re surrounded by the usual suspects—Soap’s and Gaz’s rambling, Ghost’s looming presence beside you, and Price was just slightly in front, leading the group with the easy confidence of a man who always knows the way.

You’re only a few steps from the door when someone called out.

“Captain Price.”

The squad stopped, heads turning like a single organism. Lieutenant Harrow approached with the same self-assurance she arrived on base with earlier this week—sharp uniform, sharper smile.

John gave her a sidelong glance, clipped and unreadable as ever. "Lieutenant Harrow."

"I heard Task Force 141’s been assigned to help retrain my squad," she said. "Figured I'd introduce myself properly."

"Consider it done," Price replied, tone disinterested. He nodded once, like that was the end of the conversation.

Harrow didn’t budge. “I’ve read your file, sir. You're the kind of leader people follow into hell and back. Maybe you could use a lieutenant with grit?”

Price gave her a slow once-over, expression unreadable. “I already have one. And three sergeants. All very resourceful.”

She just smiled.

“Just wanted to ask if it would be alright for my team to drop by sometime. Get familiar with yours before we start joint training.”

Her gaze flicked over each of you before landing on Price again, too familiar for your taste. Ghost shifted beside you, voice flat and unmoved. “This building’s rec room is 141-access only. Security protocol.”

“Shame,” Harrow said, pouting slightly as she clasped her hands behind her back. “I was hoping for a private coffee with you, Captain.”

Price’s answer was immediate, clipped and dry. “I’m flattered, but I don’t think my missus would approve.”

That smirk on Harrow’s face deepened. “Some trees can always be replanted. I’m very stubborn, Captain. I won’t stop until you say yes.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and strolls away, like she hadn’t just implied she was ready to uproot your entire marriage for a flat white.

Yes—on base you were Sergeant Y/L/N and he was Captain Price. Off duty? You were Mr. and Mrs. Price. You'd kept things discreet since the wedding. And until now, no one had pushed boundaries.

Apparently, Lieutenant Harrow didn’t get the memo about not being too familiar with 141.

Under your breath—just loud enough for the squad—you muttered: “Let’s see how replanting my foot out of your ass will go.”

Soap and Gaz snorted.

Ghost murmured behind you—dry and amused, “Brutal.”

Price said nothing. But as he held the door open for you, you caught it—the faintest grin.

You stepped through, arching a brow. “You’re enjoying this a bit too much.”

He let the door shut behind you. “Watching you not punch her? Yeah. Bit of a novelty.”

You snorted. “You have so little faith in me. I didn’t do it just because I know that in a few hours you won’t be my captain.”

──────────

You were leaning against the railing just outside the training field, sipping coffee with John. Quiet moments like this were rare on base—no screaming, no bleeding, no explosions in the distance. Just the two of you. From afar: a captain and a sergeant talking casually. But insiders knew better. Your conversations could range from ammo reports to tonight’s dinner plans… or how sore you are after the fuck he gave you night before.

Today, though, it was pure gossip. John was recounting something Soap apparently said to Gaz about his haircare. His voice low, amused, teasing.

You snorted into your cup. “Wait, wait—Soap use what?”

“Coconut oil conditioner,” Price grinned, voice full of disbelief. “Claims it makes his mohawk ‘less aggressive in wind.’”

“Might try it myself,” you muttered, genuinely curious.

You were both laughing, shoulders brushing, easy in each other’s orbit—when footsteps echoed behind you.

Lieutenant Harrow. Of course.

Her boots clicked sharp and fast. She stopped a few paces away, posture tight, lips pressed into a polite smile as she nodded at John.

“Captain. I’d like a few words with you.”

You straightened slightly but didn’t move, still sipping your coffee—calm, steady.

Harrow’s gaze flicked to you, unimpressed. “Need anything, Sergeant? You may go.”

Price’s brow rose—immediate reaction. His shoulders didn’t shift, but his voice hardened just slightly.

“Careful, Lieutenant,” he said evenly. “She bites.”

Harrow’s smile stretched—unconvincing. “But she recognizes rank, yes?”

You lifted your chin. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

You turned to step away, posture sharp and professional. But John didn’t let you.

“Stay,” he said firmly.

You froze. So did Harrow.

He turned toward her fully now—casual tone gone.

“She—and the rest of my squad—aren’t yours to command, Lieutenant.”

Harrow stiffened, her smile flickering. “We’re all part of the same base, Captain. Chain of command exists for a reason.”

Price didn’t budge. “We’re here out of convenience, Lieutenant. 141 doesn’t fall under your jurisdiction. My people answer to me. Only me.”

His voice dropped lower—quiet and final. “And we’re the ones training your unit. If I were you, I’d focus on keeping that relationship intact.”

The silence was thick.

Eventually, Harrow straightened again, attempting recovery. “Understood. I apologize.”

Price gave a short nod. “Now—what did you need?”

“I wanted to ask when your team will begin training mine?”

You arched a brow. He didn’t even blink.

“Before breakfast,” he said.

“Why so early?”

“So, they won’t have much to throw up with during training,” you answered, tone dry.

“You’re that intense, huh?”

“The last team quit before lunch,” Price said, like he was commenting on the weather.

Harrow’s jaw ticked. The smile on her face stayed, but you saw the irritation slip through—just for a second. Then she tilted her head, voice dipping low. “I do love a good command from a tough man.”

Price’s expression didn’t shift. “I told you—I’m taken, Lieutenant. You’re very persistent.”

Her smirk deepened. “Yes, I am. And I always get what I want.”

She turned and walked off, sway in her hips screaming intent.

You watched her go, lips pursed. The bitter taste of coffee wasn’t from the roast.

John gave a low hum beside you—part bracing, part amused. “You alright?”

“Just picturing how I’d look in prison jumpsuit,” you replied.

Price chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm against your ear. “Orange isn’t your colour, love.”

You sipped your coffee with a bitter smile. “Would match the blood on my boots, though.”

──────────

The mess hall buzzed with the usual clinks of cutlery and quiet chatter—the dull rhythm of life between drills. At your table, everything was peaceful.

You sat nestled between Ghost and your husband. Thigh pressed against John’s beneath the table like a secret handshake. Price was relaxed, posture loose, jaw soft. Ghost, to your other side, was silent as ever, dissecting whatever the kitchen dared to label “chicken.”

Across the table, Soap and Gaz were locked in a whisper-war over the last packet of hot sauce—two raccoons battling over a stolen Pop-Tart. Gaz held it just out of reach, smug. Soap swiped half-heartedly, muttering threats of Scottish vengeance.

It was familiar. Safe. Until—

“Room for one more?”

That voice scraped across your nerves like sandpaper on steel. No need to look up—you’d memorized it by now.

Lieutenant Harrow.

Uninvited, she dragged her tray across the table and slid into the vacant seat beside Gaz with the ease of someone convinced the world moved for her.

The temperature dropped. The air shifted. Even the silverware seemed to pause.

Harrow didn’t acknowledge anyone. Except your husband.

“Captain,” she purred, chin propped on her hand like they were old lovers. “Didn’t know you dined with your squad.”

John didn’t glance her way. “Most days.”

She smiled, too sweet. “Must be nice, loyalty like that. I’m a little jealous of your squad to be honest. I wouldn’t mind seeing your face every morning.”

Soap made a sound—possibly a gag. Gaz blinked like he’d been physically slapped with a old fashioned phonebook. Even Ghost stilled mid-chew.

You didn’t react. Just stabbed a carrot with deliberate focus.

Price didn’t even sigh. “I’m taken, Lieutenant.”

Harrow laughed—a light, fluttery sound like she hadn’t already heard that few times already. “She won’t find out.”

Soap choked. Gaz wheezed. Ghost set his fork down with quiet, surgical finality.

You took a slow, unbothered sip of tea. “She will,” you said, tone flat as a firing range.

Harrow’s smile barely held. Her eyes narrowed, flicking your way like you were inconvenient background noise.

“Only if someone tells her.”

Price finally looked up. His gaze met yours—steady, soft, burning just a little deeper. He lowered his fork.

“I don’t cheat,” he said, each word sharp. “Not ever.”

Harrow didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened.

“They all say that… until they see what I can do. I’m flexible, sir.”

Gaz dropped his fork. Soap froze mid-bite. Ghost sighed audibly. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered.

Harrow stood, tray in hand, hips swaying again like punctuation. Her parting shot? She tossed one last line over her shoulder:

“And for what it’s worth—my team’s still standing. That says something, doesn’t it?”

Price nodded, tone cool. “Better than most. We’ll see next week.”

She winked. Winked. And walked away.

Price sighed quietly and turned to you. “You alright?”

You raised your cup like a toast. “Are you kidding? Best entertainment I’ve had in week.”

A warm huff escaped him. Ghost exhaled through his nose, subtle approval.

Gaz let out a shaky laugh. “She sat across from his wife. His wife. And flirted. Shamelessly.”

Soap leaned forward, stunned. “Do we tell her or…?”

You grinned into your tea. “Not yet. Let her shovel a little deeper.”

John sighed, “Why?”

You smiled slow. Sweet. Dangerous. “She apparently thinks she can have anything she wants, and that some rules don’t apply to her. She needs the lesson.”

Soap blinked at you both. “Okay but... why wait?”

You leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Because I’m a petty bitch who enjoys watching people crash and burn.”

Ghost nodded. No hesitation. “Good.”

John turned to you, deadpan. “So, I’m your pawn now?”

You didn’t blink, just patted his thigh under the table. “You’ve been my pawn for months, John. Cope.”

His chuckle was low. Fond. “I married a monster.”

“You knew what you were getting into.”

Gaz wheezed into his napkin. Soap slapped the table. Ghost stabbed another bite and muttered, “She’s right on that.”

And you? You kept sipping your tea. Smug. Calm. Already halfway through writing her eulogy.

──────────

The briefing room was already buzzing with Harrow's unit, seated in a loose semi-circle while Price stood near the projector, arms crossed, that usual no-nonsense posture in full effect. He outlined the parameters of the upcoming training mission: Task Force 141 would pose as enemy combatants. Harrow’s team was to track, engage, and neutralize—using paintball rifles, in a mock facility set a few miles from base.

You weren’t meant to be in the meeting, but you had a clipboard in hand and a reason to enter, so you did. You knocked once on the open door and stepped inside—quiet, efficient, surgical in your purpose.

The moment Harrow saw you, her stance shifted. Chin lifted. Brows raised. Defensive posturing dressed as confidence. She stood a little too close to John. Again.

"Sergeant Y/L/N," she said, tone crisp. "You shouldn’t be here."

You offered a pleasant smile. “No worry, ma’am. It’s not like your team has a shot at beating us anyway. I just need Captain Price’s signature.” You raised the clipboard like it was an olive branch made of administrative dominance.

From where he stood, John raised a brow. “What is it?”

“End-of-day reports, Captain,” you said, tone breezy but pointed. “Everything double-checked and signed off by Lieutenant Riley.” You walked past Harrow, brushing by her like she was nothing more than a coat rack in the way, and came to stand in front of your husband.

He stepped forward to meet you, his fingers brushing yours as he took the clipboard, lingering just a second too long for it to be professional.

You smirked. “Once you sign it, I’m officially off-duty. I’ll drop it at your office then head home. Gaz offered me a ride.”

He glanced at his watch, then back at you. “I’ll be done after this briefing. Wait in my office—we’ll go together.”

You nodded. “We’re out of milk and eggs. Need to hit the shop on the way.”

His smile was soft. “You’re the boss, love.”

Then, without fanfare, he leaned in and kissed you. Brief. Casual. Familiar. Like you’d done it a thousand times. Because you had.

“Of course I am,” you said, beaming.

You could practically hear the oxygen evacuate Harrow’s lungs.

“See you in a few,” John said as you turned to leave—head high, clipboard sharp, boots clicking with precision.

You didn’t care anymore. You were off-duty. So, fuck it!

From inside, you heard someone whistle—then a voice teasing: “Captain Price, domesticated!”

John didn’t miss a beat. “Alright. Cut it.”

Out in the corridor, your boots echoed across polished concrete. Halfway down the hall, more footsteps caught up—quick, purposeful.

“Sergeant.” Harrow’s voice. Not formal. Not casual. Something sour in between.

You turned slowly. “Lieutenant.”

She folded her arms, posture tight. Trying to look authoritative. But her eyes flickered. Uncertainty. Good.

“I didn’t know,” she said, voice low.

You raised a brow. “You didn’t know he was with me. But he told you—more than once—that he was taken.”

A beat. Then—“Right.”

You nodded, a humourless little smile flickering over your lips. “So, you weren’t just pushy, Lieutenant. You were on the verge of sexual harassment ready to steal another woman’s man.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I just hope,” you interrupted, measured, calm, “you’re a better soldier than you are a woman. If not? That’ll get people killed.”

That got under her skin. You saw the twitch in her jaw, the slight flare of her nostrils. She straightened her spine like she was about to bark a command.

“You’re speaking to an officer, Sergeant.”

“No,” you said flatly, taking a step forward. “I’m speaking to a woman who spent whole week trying her absolute best trying to climb into my man’s fly.”

Her brows furrowed—confused. Defensive.

“Tell me,” you continued, “since you arrived did you saw us fraternize?”

She blinked, “What…”

“It’s a yes or no question,” you pressed. “Did you ever see me and him step out of line?”

“…No.”

You nodded. “We keep our private life private, and when on duty he’s the captain and I am a sergeant. What he says goes, I salute, I say ‘yes sir’ and do my fucking job. Because we’re professionals. Unlike you.”

Your tone shifted—quiet, cold.

“You wear that uniform and your rank like it’s currency. Like it entitles you to power and favours. You should be ashamed.”

Her eyes narrowed, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve seen your records, Lieutenant,” you continued, voice dipped in quiet venom. “Full-blown nepo-baby. Daddy’s little girl, commissions handed out with a dinner party and a handshake. You probably never even saw a real fight.”

Her mouth opened—offended, furious.

“Me?” Your voice dropped. “I bled for my rank, for my place in 141. I buried teammates. Earned every stripe. I didn’t sleep my way up—but I did fall in love.” A breath caught in your throat. Heavy—but not weak. “Neither of us planned it. Hell, we fought it. But it happened. And we chose to keep it quiet. For professionalism. For peace.” You tilted your head. “But because your ego can’t cope with rejection, we’re done hiding.”

Harrow’s jaw stiffened. “What I witnessed wasn’t keeping it quiet.”

You didn’t blink. “And yet, it wasn’t against protocol.” Your tone cooled, eyes sharp. “I’m off-duty. I can kiss my man. Don’t need your permission for that.”

The door behind her opened with a hiss.

“Everything alright?” came John’s voice—calm, unreadable.

Harrow stiffened like she'd been caught rifling through someone else's intel. You didn’t miss the flick of panic in her posture. You smiled sweetly. “Just having a little chat, babe. Seems the lieutenant's rattled that you’re mine.”

Harrow inhaled sharply. “Careful, Sergeant Y/L/N—”

“It’s Price, actually,” John stepped forward until he stood solidly next to you, voice clipped, firm. No bite. Just weight—the kind he used in combat, when a line was crossed and no warning would be given twice.

Harrow’s eyes darted between the two of you, “You’re… married?”

John raised a brow. “I told you I have a missus.”

Harrow’s mouth parted like she had something to say, but nothing came out.

You gave her a half-smile, tilting your head. “You thought he’d call me that without a wedding cake?”

Silence. Total.

“I think the lieutenant has work to get back to,” John added, calm but unmistakably dismissive.

“Yes, sir,” Harrow muttered, turning on her heel.

You waited until she disappeared around the corner before exhaling, tension peeling off your shoulders.

He turned to you, eyes softening. “You okay?”

You gave him a genuine smile, “I am now.”

He chuckled, tossing an arm around your shoulders and kissing your temple as you wrap you arm around his waist. “Thought we were keeping it private.”

You shrugged. “We were. But enough is enough.”

He took clipboard from your hand, brow raised, voice full of amusement. “Figured that much from your message. ‘Kiss me or you’re sleeping on the couch.’ Bold.”

You grinned. “You didn’t hesitate.”

The world was upside down. Literally.

You were hanging by a goddamn rope under a helicopter mid-flight, boots kicking above city traffic, wind howling in your ears, and bullets singing past your head. One minute you were strapped in nice and tight beside Gaz, the next—a sharp jerk, metal groaning, and boom. You were out of the machine like an unwanted package, dangling like a piñata over a warzone.

Below, cars blared their horns as they swerved to avoid you. Above, the chopper pitched sideways, fighting to regain altitude after taking a direct hit.

“FUCK!” Gaz yelled.

“I’m still attached, for now!” you barked back, fingers burning from clinging to the harness line, your rifle swinging from your shoulder as you kicked to stabilize yourself. "Not exactly sightseeing, but thanks for asking!"

“Gaz, status.” came Price’s voice—calm, tight. Too calm, for now.

Gaz keyed in. “Bird’s hit but still flying. Y/N is…”

“Y/N is what?” John’s voice sharpened.

“She fell off the chopper,” Gaz said, just a touch too breezy, “Line kept her from painting the pavement.” Did he just—? Was that amusement in his voice you heard?!

“Y/N?” John barked, tone sharp. “Y/N!”

You were a bit occupied shooting at assholes unloading rounds from a convoy below while wind slammed into you like a sledgehammer. “Kinda busy, Captain!” you shouted through static and adrenaline.

“You’re supposed to stay in the helicopter!”

“Oh, really? Thanks for the tip!”

“I told you to be careful!”

“Wasn’t planning the freefall!”

Then came Price’s voice again—smug affection layered under gravel: “Thought you were afraid of heights.”

“Fuck you!”

“You? Anytime.”

“Pour some sugar one me,” you sang, terribly off-key. “C’mon fire me up!”

“You guys are mental,” Kyle muttered over comms. “Proper unhinged.”

“Eyes on the road, Gaz!” you snapped, swinging wide over a lorry and nearly kicking a side mirror off. “Shoot those fuckers!”

“I am!”

“Shoot better!”

“Not my fault you’re doing aerial ballet!”

Nikolai finally steadied the bird enough to lift you higher, the line groaning under strain. “We are almost there,” he said in your ear. “Hold on, milaya.”

“What the hell else would I do?!”

“I have so many answers,” Price muttered under his breath.

„Jump onto that truck” Nikolai said while positioning you above the car, where you cut the rope and landed on the pickup bed. He lowered you just enough. You cut the rope, landed hard in the pickup bed—rolling, then climbing over the cab like it was yours. You shot through the window, dropped the driver, and shoved his body out like last week’s laundry. By the time Gaz hopped in beside you, you were behind the wheel.

“You good?” he panted.

You grinned. “Never better.”

Over comms, Price exhaled. “We’re ahead of you.”

“You missed the show,” you teased.

“And still aged ten years,” he growled. “You’re not leaving my sight again. Ever.”

“Or what—gonna chain me to your belt now?”

“If I have to.”

It was supposed to be a nice, quiet bachelorette party for your little sister.

You had it all planned—reservations at a classy bar, a corner booth with mood lighting and soft music, a round of pastel-colored cocktails with ridiculous names. She didn’t want a wild night. No strippers. No limos. No drunken scavenger hunts or plastic tiaras with penises glued to them. Just a sweet, mannerly evening with her closest friends. Stories, shots, laughs. And just plain glittered princess tiaras. A perfect send-off into married life.

And you, as her older sister, were the one who swore to make sure it happened exactly like that. You even wore a dress, curled your hair and smiled as cutely as you could. You were civilized.

And yet… here you were.

In jail.

Okay. Look.

It wasn’t your fault.

You did throw a few punches—and maybe a shoe—and yes, there was some… colourful vocabulary involved. But you weren’t the one who started it.

Your sister had been shoved. Someone threw a drink at her and someone else made a comment that ended with “slut.”

You snapped.

Like a champagne cork under pressure.

It was instinct. Reflex. Muscle memory from your other life—the one none of these glittery, wine-drunk girls knew about. The life where you handled conflict with precision and controlled violence and made sure your people were safe.

You didn’t start it.

But you damn well finished it.

So now you’re sitting in a holding cell, barefoot, smelling like tequila, pineapple rum, and maybe little bit of blood.

Your hair were a mess. Makeup even worse. Dress had a tear up the side from where someone tried to grab you. You’re holding one heel in your hand like it’s a weapon. The other MIA.

Your ‘Bridesmaid’ tiara was still on your head, tilted like a battle flag.

And your knuckles?

Yeah. Not intact.

But you were calm.

The kind of calm that comes after the explosion. Like a grenade that's already gone off and is just lying there, empty and satisfied.

Across the hallway, the other bachelorette party was still sobbing and yelling and screaming all curses at you.

They look like they just got hit by a pink glitter freight train. Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. You don’t even know their names. Didn’t need to.

They shoved your sister. They disrespected her. And then they had the audacity to start wailing when you threw a chair?

Embarrassing.

“You get one phone call,” an officer muttered, walking up to your cell.

You glanced around.

Your sister and her friends were still processing what happened. Their dresses wrinkled, mascara ruined. One of them might be crying. Another two probably sleeping.

It’s clear: you’re the only one in this cell capable of making a coherent phone call. You stood up.

“I’ll do it,” you sighed.

The officer walks you over to the front desk, sited you down beside a grimy landline, and slided it across like it might explode.

You didn’t hesitate. You dial the one number you know will absolutely get results.

“Price.”

You smile instantly.

“Hiiiiiiii, babe.”

There wass a long pause on the other end. You could see it—him pinching the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He knows.

“…What did you do?”

You huffed. “It was in self-defense!”

Another pause.

“Where are you?”

“Jail.”

He sighed. The heavy kind. The ‘I can’t believe this is my life, but I also can’ kind.

You hear him grab his keys, already moving.

“What’s the address?”

You gave it to him and now you had to wait.

──────────

You didn’t need to lift your head to know who was coming. You’d recognize those footsteps anywhere.

Slow and steady—he was taking his sweet time, just to mess with you. Then he stopped.

You raised your head and saw John, standing on the other side of the bars. That classic stride. Arms crossed. His standard ‘Captain’ stance. And, of course, the infuriating smugness pulling at the corners of his mouth.

He was loving this.

You, glitter-smeared and barefoot, locked in a holding cell after a bar brawl on your sister’s hen night.

“Hey, babe,” you said, standing up and offering a sheepish smile. You’d faced enemies in war zones, led black-ops missions without flinching… but somehow, standing there glitter-smeared in front of him, you felt naked. And he saw you as such countless of time, this felt different kind of naked.

“Hello, love,” he replied smoothly, voice as calm as ever. “So, this is how you spend your time off?”

“You know bloody well I don’t.”

He nodded at the cell you were in. “You behind bars says otherwise.”

You opened your mouth—then shut it. He smirked. Full-on devilish this time. Unfair. Behind you, your sister’s bridal party burst like shaken champagne bottles.

“Is that your boyfriend?” one of them gasped.

“Looks more like your boss,” added another.

“He’s both, actually,” your sister said matter-of-factly. “Hey, John.”

“Hey, Kat.” He offered her a polite nod. “You ladies alright?”

“I am now,” said one of the girls, practically swooning. “Damn, Y/N—you said he was handsome, but you forgot to mention he looks like the kind of man who ruins your life, and you thank him for it.”

His eyes slid back to you, clearly trying not to look too smug—but failing. All you could do was shrug and fight the blush threatening to climb your cheeks.

“You broken?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

And then—of course—as if summoned by the goddess of humiliation herself, the rest of 141 strolled into view behind John. Soap was already grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Gaz nursed a coffee like this was the best show he’d seen all week. Ghost just hovered like a storm cloud, somehow managing to block out the overhead light with pure judgmental energy.

“You brought those assholes with you?” you said to John, feeling betrayed. You knew this would haunt you forever. Every argument. Every sparring match. Every single time you will be right—they’ll bring this up.

“They insisted to come, love.”

Soap was the first to break.

“Well, well, well... if it isnae the glittered menace herself,” he laughed, throwing you a wicked grin.

“Shut it, Johnny.”

“Aw, dinnae get yer tiara in a twist, lassie,” he teased, arms crossed, clearly enjoying this way too much.

“You look like after a boss fight,” Gaz said, sipping his coffee.

That’s when the desk officer appears. Clipboard in hand. Dead eyes. The energy of a man who’s seen some things tonight and would rather never speak of them again. He stops beside the cell, flips a page, and reads with the tired resignation of a man writing your war record.

“She broke one nose,” he began.

All eyes turned to you.

“Knocked out three teeth.”

Soap raised an eyebrow. Gaz stifled a laugh behind his coffee.

“She threw a shoe,” the officer continued, “and then a chair.”

Soap nearly wheezed, “you threw a chair?! Yer da would be proud!”

Ghost, low and slow, stoic behind his mask asked “what’d the chair ever do to you?”

You shrugged with a soldier’s calm. “It was in the way.”

Gaz outright snorted.

The officer carried on, grim, “body-slammed the bouncer onto a table. Table broke. Guy’s fine by the way—but I’m sure his ego’s shattered. Took three officers to restrain her. She was laughing the entire time and called them ‘Primark SWAT’.”

A beat of pure silence.

All four men stare at you.

Deadpan.

A hint of awe.

Ghost tilted his head, amused, “she was the boss fight.”

Soap let out a choked laugh, muttering under his breath, “unhinged. Kinda impressive though.”

John eyes were lock onto you, “you body-slammed a bouncer onto a table.”

You shrug again. “He tried to stop me.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Wonder why,” he smirks. Then turned to the officer with a nod toward you and your ragtag bridal crew, “can we take them home?”

The man sighed, unlocking the cell. “Guess she knew what she was doing. No charges were pressed. Aside from the broken nose, no real injuries.”

No one said a word. Everyone here was informed enough to know what you did for a living — and it was better that the rest didn’t find out.

You stepped out of the cell just as one of the women from the other bridal party — still locked in the opposite one — decided to remind everyone she was still very much alive.

“She knocked out my tooth!”

“You did it yourself while falling to the floor,” your sister shot back sweetly, flashing a devilish grin.

“You slut!”

And that was when you snapped. Again.

You were ready to launch — heel in one hand, vengeance burning in your blood — but John caught you mid-step, his arms wrapping firmly around your waist before you could make impact.

“Love,” he whispered low and calm in your ear, “I just got you out.”

As if that wasn’t enough, Ghost and Soap stepped in, planting themselves in front of you. Even if you managed to fool Captain Price and get released, these two were your last line of defence against another round of chaos.

Soap was clearly having the time of his life — grinning from ear to ear, alive with mischief. Ghost, meanwhile, was the ever-watchful statue behind his mask, silently ready for whatever came next.

──────────

After your sister’s fiancé took her and the rest of the bridal party home, you were stuck at the precinct signing what felt like a mountain of paperwork. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, mixing oddly with the lingering smell of your ruined dress and the faint trace of spilled drinks.

You tapped your pen against the clipboard, wondering just how much worse this night could get. Then Soap appeared next to you, grinning like he’d just thought of the best joke ever.

“Oi, officer,” he called out, nodding toward the nearby policeman. “Can I get a copy o’ her mugshot?”

The officer looked up, already exhausted, and raised a brow. “What for?”

Soap shrugged, his grin growing wider. “Morale.”

Gaz popped up behind him, hands casually in his pockets. “Make two copies.”

Ghost stepped in next, voice low and steady. “Three.”

You rolled your eyes with a groan. “You guys are the worst of the worst.”

And then—

“Four,” said a familiar voice behind you.

You turned around, narrowing your eyes at your boyfriend, who stood entirely too smug with his arms crossed.

“John!”

Price gave a nonchalant shrug, smiling like the smug bastard he was. “You owe that to us, love. We’re still on duty.”

Soap nodded. “Aye, tha’s right, lassie. Ye were out havin’ a riot while we were bustin’ oor arses servin’ the bloody country.”

You gave him a look. “Serve the country, my ass, MacTavish. You were playing UNO until I called, that’s for sure.”

Gaz laughed. “Still had to leave base for this rescue op. You owe us this at the very least.”

“I didn’t call you three,” you muttered, waving your hand at them. “I called John. He decided to punish me by bringing you fuckers.”

“I didn’t,” John said, raising a hand. “Simon was in my office when you called.”

Ghost offered a slow nod. “Had to make sure it was real. Worth it.”

The officer returned, sliding four copies of your mugshot across the desk. The boys swarmed instantly like kids at Christmas.

Soap practically choked on his laugh. “Look at yer face! That’s chaos on legs, that is.”

The photo was… An absolute war crime. You, post-brawl, post-tequila, mid-chaos. Cocktail dress torn at the hip, one earring gone, tiara clinging for dear life on the side of your head. Mascara streaked down one cheek, lip slightly swollen, hair wild, and expression fully unbothered. Smirking. Dangerous. Like you’d been thriving in that cell.

“Genuinely iconic,” Gaz declared laughing.

John gave the photo one long, slow glance, then looked at you with that irritating, fond smile.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

Soap tucked his copy safely into his jacket. “Not a chance, lass. Got a new callsign for ye: Duchess.”

──────────

The night air wrapped around you like a sigh—cool, quiet, and far too sobering.

You stepped out of the precinct into the stillness of the empty street, barefoot. And since one of your heels was MIA—you’d tossed the other into the trash bin beside the entrance. Your cocktail dress hung on by sheer will, the hem snagged, the side torn from all the chaos. Glitter clung to your skin like a stubborn reminder, and the faint scent of tequila still lingered in your hair.

Without a word, John shrugged off his jacket and stepped in front of you, slipping it over your shoulders.

“You’ll catch a chill,” you said calmly.

“I’m a grown man, I’ll manage,” he teased, “You’re the one barefoot wearing a plastic tiara.” He laughed—deep and warm.

You laughed softly, sliding your arms into the sleeves. The jacket was familiar—warm, heavy, and carrying the unmistakable scent of him: leather softened by wear, faint gun oil, and that subtle trace of cigar smoke you secretly loved. You breathed it in deeply, the smell curling warmly in your lungs and making your cheeks flush.

“This jacket’s gonna be glitter city by morning,” you muttered, glancing down at your arms.

“Fine by me,” he said, hands sliding into his pockets, eyes still fixed on yours. “Let everyone know I’ve been near something dangerously explosive.”

You smirked, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re comparing me to a bomb now?”

He grinned back, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You body-slammed a bloody bouncer, love. Doesn’t get much more explosive than that.”

A tired, genuine laugh escaped you as you leaned back against the rough brick wall beside the precinct, feeling the oversized jacket cocoon you like a safe harbour. The cool night wind tugged at loose strands of your hair, brushing them softly across your cheek.

“You’re dangerously calm after my little stunt,” you teased, voice low.

John tilted his head, a slow, deep smirk spreading across his face. “You—in a ruined dress, wearing my jacket, glittered to hell? Sweetheart, I’m barely holding it together.” His grin widened as he stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against yours.

You huffed, flirty. “You’re a cheeky bastard, captain.”

Without hesitation, his lips found yours—confident, familiar, and claiming. The kiss was slow but charged, full of years of knowing, teasing, and unspoken promises.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours with that same playful glint. “Right back at you, sergeant.”

From down the street, you could hear the faint roar of a familiar engine. The headlights approached, blinding for a second as the military SUV pulled up to the curb—Soap behind the wheel, grinning like a maniac.

“Taxi for glitter-smothered outlaw!” he yelled out the window.

──────────

You walked into the 141 rec room, coffee in hand, clean-faced and freshly showered—for the fifth time in past two days. And still… glitter. Despite aggressive scrubbing, industrial-grade body wash, and enough loofah friction to buff a car, the glitter clung to you like it had been forged in blood and vengeance. A few flecks shimmered on your jaw, another winked at you from the curve of your collarbone. One particularly persistent piece was nestled in your left eyebrow, defiant as ever.

Your hoodie was zipped to your throat like armour. Your hair twisted into a damp bun. Your posture radiated the quiet dignity of someone who had fought, survived, and deeply regretted exactly none of it.

At least not until you looked up.

You froze. Mid-step. Mid-sip. Mid-breath.

There it was.

Front and centre on the private 141 bulletin board—reserved strictly for internal jokes, memos, classified sarcasm, and the occasional dick drawing—was your mugshot. Framed. In glitter tape.

And underneath, in thick, unapologetic black marker:

CALLSIGN: DUCHESS

Casualties Report:

one pair of high heels – MIA

one chair – destroyed

one table – structural collapse (via bouncer impact)

one bouncer – airborne, ego shattered

three teeth – knocked out

one nose – broken

three police officers – emotionally scarred for being called “Primark SWAT”

tiara – still intact (morale win)

You stared at it in stunned silence, brow twitching. Then, slowly, you took a long sip of your coffee like it might erase the shame through sheer caffeine.

Didn’t say a word for a while. Until finally, voice flat: “Next time, I’m doing a prison break. You fuckers.”

Soap wandered in from the hallway. “Ye’d be shite at a prison break,” he teased. “Can’t sneak oot when yer trailin’ glitter like breadcrumbs.”

Gaz popped his head in, grinning. “Plus, you’d probably throw another chair.”

You glared. “One chair. One. And I was provoked.”

All three of them were lounging like this was movie night. Feet up. Popcorn out. Mugshot gleaming in the background like a war trophy.

Then Price appeared beside you, coffee in one hand, unreadable smirk on his face as he looked up at the board like he was admiring military history.

You glared. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Soap snorted. “He framed it.”

“And picked the tape,” added Gaz.

“Glitter too,” Ghost muttered. “Said it was thematic.”

You blinked. “You glitter-framed my mugshot?”

Price sipped his coffee. “Had to match the subject, love.”

You gave an exasperated groan, scrubbing a hand down your face. “You’re all children.”

You took one last sip of your coffee looking at Price, eyes narrowed just enough to be dangerous. He was still sipping his own, completely unbothered. That smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he’d already won.

You stepped closer—just enough for him to catch the glint in your eye.

“Y’know…” you said casually, voice velvet smooth, “you may have glitter-framed my mugshot... and encouraged this little roast session—”

Soap raised his hand proudly. “Aye, and it’s not even over yet.”

You didn’t break eye contact with John. Your smile widened. Slow. Dangerous.

“—but you’re the one who’s gonna regret it.”

He raised a brow, amused. “Oh?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Mm-hmm. No sex.”

That made Ghost glance up from whatever he was doing at the table – you didn’t care to look. Gaz let out a low whistle. Soap choked on his water. “Fuckin’ hell! Duchess has declared war.”

But Price? Oh, the bastard had the audacity to lean in—eyes glittering like he was halfway to laughing.

“Is that so?” he asked, voice low and positively sinful.

You straightened your spine and nodded. “That’s right. I’m putting you on lockdown.”

He took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee, gaze flicking down to your lips… then lower. When he looked back up, he had that look in his eye—the one that made your knees weak, and your brain short-circuit. You took a deliberate step back—not out of strategy, but survival. Because if you stay in his orbit a second longer, you'll be toast. He knew it. You knew it. Everyone in the damn room knew it.

You cleared your throat. “No sex. Indefinitely.”

Then, he smiled. Soft. Confident. Smug as hell. “Sweetheart,” he said, voice quiet and smooth, “you won’t last two days.” As you pass him, Price leaned in—low enough that only you hear. “You’ll come crawling.”

You didn’t dignify it with a response. Mostly because he was probably right.

Your breath caught for half a second, but you recovered with a sly grin. “Watch me,” you whispered.

“Gladly,” he murmured, close now—close enough that you could smell the coffee and cigar smoke on his breath, feel the heat radiating off him, hear the very slight rasp in his voice that always gave him away.

You took a step back. Then another. Slowly.

You lifted your coffee in a mock toast. “See you in hell, Captain.”

He smirked. “I’ll have a room ready. Duchess.”

As you pass Soap you saw his t-shirt with your mugshot on it. In Comic Sans, it says “FREE THE DUCHESS”.

“You’re dead to me,” you muttered.

He just winked, “fashion statement, lass.”

Soap was howling with laughter. Gaz just muttered, “ten quid says she folds by Friday.”

Ghost, dry as dust said “Wednesday. Tops.”

And the bulletin board?