There’s a rhythm to the way they exist.
You notice it long before they do.
Simon Riley and Johnny “Soap” MacTavish aren’t obvious about it—not in the way civilians expect. There’s no grand declarations, no lingering touches in plain sight, no soft words whispered where others might hear.
It’s subtler than that.
It’s the way Soap always knows when Ghost is about to speak, cutting in just a second before him like he can feel it coming.
It’s the way Ghost stands just a fraction closer to Soap than anyone else, even in a crowded room.
It’s the silence between them—comfortable, heavy, full.
You don’t mean to notice it.
But you do.
And somehow… they notice you noticing.
It starts small.
It always does.
You’re newer to the team—not green, not by a long shot—but new enough that you’re still finding your place among them. You keep your head down, do your job, don’t overstep.
But you’re observant.
Too observant, maybe.
Because one evening, when the mission’s done and the adrenaline’s worn off, you catch it again—Soap tossing Ghost a glance across the room, something unreadable passing between them.
You don’t stare.
You’ve learned better than that.
But when you look away, you find Ghost already looking at you.
Not sharp. Not threatening.
Just… aware.
It sends a strange feeling curling low in your chest.
After that, things shift.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to clock it.
But for you?
It’s everything.
Soap starts sitting next to you more often. At first, it feels like coincidence—limited space, proximity, whatever excuse you tell yourself.
Until it isn’t.
Until it happens every time.
He’s easy to talk to. Warm, teasing, effortlessly drawing you out of your shell without making it feel like work. You find yourself laughing more than you have in months—maybe longer.
Ghost, on the other hand…
Ghost watches.
He doesn’t insert himself into conversations. Doesn’t try to pull your attention.
But he’s there.
Always there.
And when you do speak to him, when your eyes meet through that skull mask, there’s something grounding about it. Something steady.
Like he’s weighing you.
Not judging.
Just… deciding.
It’s Soap who breaks the tension.
Of course it is.
“You’re thinkin’ too hard again,” he says one night, dropping into the seat beside you with a quiet grunt.
You blink, pulled from your thoughts. “Am not.”
“Aye, you are.” He nudges your shoulder lightly. “You get this look. Like you’re tryin’ to solve a puzzle no one gave you.”
You huff softly. “Maybe I just like puzzles.”
“Dangerous habit, that.”
You glance at him, catching the grin tugging at his mouth. “Why?”
“Because sometimes,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “you find answers you weren’t meant to.”
The words linger.
Heavy.
You don’t respond right away.
Instead, your gaze flicks across the room—unconsciously, instinctively.
To Ghost.
He’s already looking.
Of course he is.
And this time… he doesn’t look away.
The shift happens all at once.
And not at all.
It’s after a mission—long, exhausting, the kind that leaves your bones aching and your mind too wired to rest. The three of you end up in the same space, same time, same quiet aftermath.
Soap sprawls out like he owns the place, boots kicked off, arm slung lazily over the back of the couch.
Ghost stands near the wall, silent as ever.
And you…
You hover.
Caught between staying and leaving.
“You can sit, y’know,” Soap says, glancing at you. “We don’t bite.”
There’s a beat.
Then Ghost adds, low and dry, “He might.”
Soap snorts. “Only if invited.”
You hesitate—just for a second—before sitting down.
Not too close.
But not far, either.
The space between you feels… charged.
Different.
Soap studies you for a moment, something more serious settling behind his usual ease.
“You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”
Your breath catches.
You could lie.
You should lie.
But something about the way they’re both looking at you—open, unguarded in a way they aren’t with anyone else—makes it impossible.
“…Yeah,” you admit quietly.
Silence stretches.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… real.
Ghost shifts first, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. Not imposing. Not overwhelming.
Just present.
“And?” he asks.
One word.
But it carries weight.
You swallow, fingers curling slightly against your knees. “It doesn’t bother me.”
Soap’s gaze sharpens—not suspicious, but searching.
“And what does it do, then?”
You hesitate.
Because the truth feels dangerous.
But you’ve already come this far.
“It makes sense,” you say softly. “The way you two are… it fits.”
Another silence.
Heavier this time.
But not in a bad way.
Ghost exhales slowly, something almost like relief in the sound.
Soap leans back, running a hand over the back of his neck, a rare flicker of uncertainty breaking through.
“Good,” he mutters. “That’s… good.”
You frown slightly. “Why?”
The two of them exchange a glance.
And this time—
You understand it.
Not the exact meaning.
But the feeling behind it.
A decision.
Already made.
Soap looks back at you first.
“Because,” he says carefully, “we’ve been thinkin’…”
Ghost steps closer.
Close enough now that you can feel his presence beside you—solid, steady, grounding.
“…about you,” he finishes.
Your heart stutters.
“About… me?”
Soap nods, expression softer now, more serious than you’ve ever seen him.
“Aye.”
Ghost’s voice is quieter, but it lands harder.
“We don’t do anything halfway.”
The implication hangs in the air.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
You look between them—Soap’s warmth, Ghost’s quiet intensity—and something inside you shifts.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Something else.
Something… right.
“You’re asking me,” you say slowly, “to be part of this.”
It’s not really a question.
Soap smiles faintly. “Only if you want to be.”
Ghost doesn’t smile.
But his hand—gloved, steady—comes to rest on the back of the couch behind you.
Not touching.
Not yet.
Waiting.
“You’d be choosing both of us,” he says.
Your pulse pounds.
Because somehow… you already know your answer.