Ghost came back caked in dust and silence, helmet under his arm eyes searching “Soap,” he muttered voice low “seen her?” Soap looked up from the table, grin softening “Common room, maybe You alright, Lt?” Ghost nodded once, impatience threading his stance. He turned—and Amari stepped into his path, all perfume and a hemline that begged attention. “Simon,” she cooed, fingers brushing his sleeve. “Long mission? You must be exhausted.” His jaw tightened. “Busy,” he said, angling away “Need to find—” “You can talk to me,” Amari pressed, laughing loud. “I missed you.” From behind, Soap cleared his throat “Mate, Price wants a word.” Ghost didn’t look back. His gaze flicked past Amari, searching rooms, shoulders tense “Later,” he said, softer now, meant for someone else. Amari shifted closer, blocking his sight, chattering on. Ghost stood there trapped heart tugging him elsewhere every second away from you stretching thin.