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The mess hall was cold and quiet, its sharp fluorescent lights casting a washed-out glow across rows of empty tables. The base seemed to hold its breath at this hour, the low hum of machinery and distant echo of footsteps the only signs of life. Ghost’s own footsteps broke the silence, heavy and deliberate as he entered the hall, shoulders slumped and eyes shadowed by the early hour. He ran a hand over his mask, yawning beneath it, as he made his way to the counter where the familiar, bitter tin of instant coffee awaited him.
He reached out automatically, fingers closing around empty air.
There, sitting directly in front of him, was a mug of dark, steaming tea.
It wasn’t the cheap, sharp tang of standard-issue tea; the smell was rich and earthy, mingling with a faint hint of cinnamon or clove—something warm and grounding. Ghost paused, hand frozen mid-air as his eyes trailed over the cup, taking in the details of it like he was examining evidence. Next to the mug lay a small note, written in careful, blocky letters he knew all too well from countless mission briefs.
For Ghost—don’t let it go cold.
He frowned, looking down at the note as though it might yield more information if he stared hard enough. The handwriting was undoubtedly Price’s, but the meaning of it… well, that was a mystery in itself. Price’s note was so simple, yet somehow it held weight. The absence of any formal address—no “Sergeant” or “Riley”—felt oddly intimate, as if this gesture were meant just for him.
Ghost’s eyes flicked up, scanning the room for any sign of the Captain. But the hall was empty, the only evidence of Price’s presence that mug of tea, placed just-so, its heat curling into the still air.
After a moment’s hesitation, he picked up the mug, feeling its warmth seep into his cold, calloused hands. He brought it to his lips, taking a tentative sip. The taste was strong, rich with a faint spiced undertone that lingered on his tongue. It was better than any drink he’d had on base, and somehow the warmth of it worked its way down to his core, settling a strange feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite name.
The smell, the taste, the lingering heat—it was… deliberate. Personal. It didn’t feel like something one soldier offered another; it felt like something altogether different, something Ghost couldn’t put a name to, even as it filled the quiet mess hall like a quiet confession.
He took another sip, his mind whirring as he held the cup with both hands, letting himself sink into the moment. In the harsh light, he felt exposed in a way he wasn’t used to—usually, he kept himself tucked behind his mask and armour, shielded by the routine of the day. But now, as he stood there alone with his mug of tea, he felt… seen.
His fingers brushed over the note again, tucking it into his pocket as he finished the tea. It was a small gesture, barely anything, really. And yet, it lingered in his thoughts as he left the mess hall, the warm feeling in his chest settling somewhere deep, where he told himself he’d ignore it.
But even as he walked away, that simple phrase—don’t let it go cold—played over in his mind, as if Price’s voice were murmuring it, low and unguarded, just beneath the quiet.
It was a crisp morning, autumn creeping in with a sharp bite to the air. Ghost had already been through his usual routines: training, equipment checks, and finally a quiet morning in the mess hall. And as had become routine, a steaming mug of tea waited for him, right on the counter, with a note scrawled in that familiar, blocky handwriting.
For Ghost—figured you’d need this in this weather.
He felt his brow furrow beneath his mask. He picked up the tea, letting its warmth settle into his gloved hands, and tucked the note away without another thought. It had to be Price. No one else bothered with notes or the good tea. Ghost sipped, shrugging off the thought; it was just the Captain looking out for him, right?
Later that day, Ghost returned to the common area, hoping to pass the time before the afternoon training rounds. His fingers trailed along the worn book spines on the shelves, eyes searching for anything new to read, when he noticed a small paperback on his bunk, its cover well-worn and clearly used.
It was Catcher in the Rye. Ghost picked it up, blinking down at it with a hint of surprise. He’d only mentioned the book once, in passing during a late-night chat about literature with Price. And there it was, sitting quietly on his bunk, as if waiting for him.
Across the room, Soap and Gaz watched the scene unfold with matching grins. Soap nudged Gaz, his voice just above a whisper. “Tell me you’re seein’ this, mate,” he murmured, his tone light and amused.
Gaz stifled a laugh, shaking his head. “Seein’ it? I’ve been watching this love story unfold for weeks. Didn’t think the Captain had it in him to be so… attentive.”
Soap chuckled, casting a quick look at Ghost, who was thumbing through the book with his usual, unchanging expression. “Aye, but you have to admit… our Captain’s goin’ all old-fashioned with this courtship. Tea, books, and now a bit of poetry?”
Gaz laughed quietly, leaning back in his chair. “Poetry, proper tea, even good coffee on occasion. The Captain’s makin’ the rest of us look lazy. He’s bringin’ Ghost around slow and steady, like they’re characters in some 19th-century romance.”
Soap grinned, his gaze flicking back to Ghost, who was still looking at the book like he couldn’t decide if he’d imagined it. “And Ghost here—doesn’t see a thing. He’s thicker than a brick wall when it comes to this sort of thing.”
Gaz chuckled, glancing at Soap with a warm grin. “Part of me wonders if he’ll ever get it. Meanwhile, Price is probably holding out for some grand moment.”
They exchanged a fond look, both genuinely pleased to see Price’s quiet attentions unfold. In their own way, they were rooting for the two of them, watching as Price’s patience took the slow, subtle route with Ghost, who remained blissfully, almost comically, unaware.
Ghost must have felt their glances because he looked up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously beneath his mask. “You two seem very interested in my book,” he rumbled, his voice its usual low, steady drawl. He tucked the paperback under his arm, giving them both a quick, appraising look.
Soap adopted a casual tone, raising his hands in mock surrender. “What, us? Just admirin’ the Captain’s… attention to detail. He’s been pretty generous lately, don’t you think?”
Ghost’s gaze remained steady, his brow creasing slightly. “Captain’s lookin’ out for his team, is all.”
Gaz held back a chuckle, giving a small nod. “Aye, he is. Wouldn’t want anyone thinkin’ otherwise. Just reckon he’s gone a bit extra with one particular member of the team.”
Ghost’s expression shifted ever so slightly, a glint of something like uncertainty in his eyes, but he dismissed it with a quick shake of his head. “You two have got too much time on your hands,” he muttered, turning away with the book clutched a little tighter.
Soap and Gaz shared an amused smile as Ghost headed out, their laughter quiet, genuinely pleased by the scene they’d witnessed. They both knew Price’s attention wasn’t something he gave lightly, and seeing Ghost completely miss every single sign left them wondering just how long this “courtship” would take.
The early evening air was thick with the crisp bite of the season’s chill, the kind that settled into your bones after a full day out on training grounds. Ghost was weary, his muscles aching as he trudged back to the barracks, mud streaked along his boots and his breath fogging up in the cold air. The idea of collapsing into his bunk and calling it a night was one of the few things keeping him moving.
As Ghost entered the dimly lit barracks, a strange sight caught his eye. Draped over his bunk, carefully folded, was a thick, dark wool blanket. His footsteps slowed as he took it in—the neatly arranged folds, the slight wear that spoke of years of use. And sitting atop it was another note, this one in Price’s unmistakable, blocky handwriting.
Thought you’d appreciate something warm. Get some proper rest tonight.
Ghost’s gaze lingered on the words, his fingers reaching out to brush the paper. The blanket was soft and substantial, better quality than anything standard-issue on base—clearly one of Price’s own, judging by the faint scent of cedar smoke that clung to it. It was like a quiet invitation to stop treating rest as an afterthought.
He picked it up, feeling the softness of the fabric as he ran his hand over the wool. It was better quality than anything they had on base—clearly one of Price’s own, judging by the faint scent of smoke and cedar that clung to it, familiar and grounding. It reminded him of nights huddled around small fires on winter missions, of the quiet comfort Price seemed to bring in the bleakest situations. But this… this was different. More intentional, somehow. It felt like more than just a gesture of care.
Sitting down heavily on his bunk, Ghost unfolded the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, feeling the immediate warmth, it offered. The room was silent, but he could hear the echoes of the day—Price’s voice directing them on the field, the sound of steady footsteps keeping pace beside him, the quiet authority in Price’s words as he offered a rare word of encouragement.
The blanket’s weight settled over him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. It felt almost as if Price had given a piece of himself, a quiet, personal gesture that left Ghost feeling… unsettled. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, but he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that this went beyond the usual camaraderie.
As he pulled the blanket closer, the faint scent of cedar smoke lingering around him, his mind flickered back to all the recent gestures: the early morning tea, the ration packs, the small book. Each gesture, on its own, had felt like a simple kindness, but all together? He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
“Captain’s just lookin’ out for his team,” he muttered to himself, almost as if speaking it aloud would make it true. But as he sat there in the dim light, the room silent except for the soft rustle of the blanket, he felt a strange warmth settle in his chest—a warmth he couldn’t entirely explain.
Tucking the note carefully into the book Price had given him, Ghost lay back, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. He shut his eyes, telling himself it was just another small act of team solidarity, nothing more.
But even as he drifted off, he found himself replaying every moment with Price, every quiet glance, every word. And in the silence, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was something more to it than he’d allowed himself to see.
The barracks hummed with the familiar sounds of post-training cleanup. Soap and Gaz were settled in the armoury, methodically cleaning their rifles. Soap ran a cloth along the barrel of his weapon, glancing over his shoulder just in time to catch Price striding in. The Captain looked relaxed, his usual steady presence lingering as he surveyed the equipment racks, but Soap caught the slight shift in his gaze as it drifted in the direction of Ghost’s bunk.
With a barely concealed grin, Soap nudged Gaz. “Clocked him lookin’ again,” he muttered, keeping his voice low.
Gaz chuckled, eyes on his own weapon. “Does it every time. Practically a routine by now.”
Price looked over at the two of them, his brow raised. “Something the two of you find amusing?”
Soap bit back a laugh, shrugging as he kept his focus on the rifle. “Just noticin’ your… attentiveness lately, Captain. Must be this cold weather.”
Gaz nodded, voice just as casual. “Yeah, seems you’ve gone all Victorian. Tea, blankets, even a bit of literature. Ghost’s probably half-thinkin’ he’s got himself a personal valet.”
Price’s expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe he could use one,” he said, returning his attention to a nearby crate. “Not the type to accept it otherwise.”
Soap and Gaz exchanged a look, both trying to keep their amusement in check.
“Long game, then?” Gaz asked, as if Price were discussing field tactics.
Price nodded, unbothered by their banter. “Ghost isn’t the kind of man you rush.”
Soap let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Patience of a saint, you’ve got. But don’t hold your breath, Cap. Our lad’s dense as they come when it comes to things like this.”
Price shot them both a knowing look. “Good thing I’m not in any rush, then.”
They both stifled their chuckles, exchanging a look of genuine respect before returning to their tasks. As Price left, Soap shook his head, his grin genuine. “Reckon Ghost’ll catch on by next year.”
“Or maybe the year after,” Gaz replied with a grin. But even as they chuckled, they couldn’t help feeling glad for the Captain—knowing full well that he’d be there for Ghost, however long it took.
It was early evening, and the dim light cast long, slanting shadows across the barracks as Ghost returned from a gruelling mission briefing. His mind was a blur of field reports and tactical plans, weighed down by the day’s work, but he felt a familiar pull as he approached his bunk. It had become routine, these small comforts that awaited him when he returned from the longest days.
But tonight, there was something new.
There, neatly folded on his bunk, was an old military-issue scarf. Its thick, charcoal-grey fabric was clearly worn and well-loved, the edges frayed from years of use. Ghost picked it up, feeling its surprising weight and softness, and caught the faint, familiar scent of cedar and faint smoke, unmistakably Price’s.
Next to the scarf was a note in that same steady, familiar handwriting:
Thought this might keep you warm out there. Weather’s turning fast.
Ghost read the words once, twice, then a third time, as though each read-through might unlock some hidden meaning. Price had given him a scarf—his own scarf, judging by the well-worn fabric and the smell that clung to it. The thought settled over him, heavier than he’d expected. This wasn’t just an item pulled from a supply closet. It was something personal, something Price had trusted him with.
He wrapped the scarf slowly around his hand, feeling the texture under his fingers, the softness that spoke of years of use. Price hadn’t just loaned this out of necessity; he’d chosen it, left it out with the intent that Ghost would find it, a gesture as deliberate as the tea in the mornings, the rations on hard missions, and the carefully selected book.
It was only when he felt the scarf’s warmth against his hand that he allowed himself to consider what this might mean. Price had been looking out for him for weeks—far more than he’d thought necessary. And it wasn’t just the way a captain might look out for a member of his team; it was more personal, more intentional. He thought back on every gesture, every morning note, every knowing look, and the realisation settled, strange and solid, in his chest.
Price hadn’t been doing this out of obligation. Each gesture was a choice, one that had Ghost at its centre.
Ghost glanced around the barracks, making sure no one was around to witness this rare, vulnerable moment. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, feeling its warmth spread over him, a comfort that was both unfamiliar and grounding.
He closed his eyes, replaying every moment in his mind, each memory fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, forming a picture he hadn’t been prepared to see. Price’s presence, the patience in every gesture, the small, personal touches—it was all there, laid out in front of him.
And for the first time, Ghost allowed himself to consider that maybe, just maybe, these gestures had meaning beyond duty.
As he adjusted the scarf around his neck, the decision settled quietly within him. He’d let Price’s intentions go unacknowledged long enough. It was time, he thought, to offer something back.
The following morning was cold, the sky overcast and grey as a light mist hung over the base. Ghost had been up before dawn, slipping out of the barracks with purpose. His mind was focused as he made his way to a small, neglected patch of earth on the outskirts of the base, where he’d spotted a few wildflowers scattered amid the weeds on an earlier patrol.
The flowers were modest—a few late-blooming asters, tiny splashes of purple and white peeking out from frost-bitten grass. Ghost knelt down, his gloved hands working carefully as he gathered a small handful. They weren’t much, just a few scrappy stems, but their quiet resilience held a kind of beauty that felt fitting.
By the time he made it back to the barracks, most of the team was up and moving, and he slipped back to his bunk with the bundle of flowers tucked carefully in his hand. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he placed them on Price’s bunk, arranging them with a slight awkwardness that made him huff under his breath. He’d never done anything like this before—had never felt the need to.
Beside the flowers, he placed a small note, his handwriting plain and deliberate, each word carefully chosen.
Figured you’d appreciate something in return. Not much, but… thank you.
He stepped back, looking at the small arrangement and feeling a strange pang of uncertainty. But something about the quiet gesture settled a calm within him, a sense of acknowledgement that he hoped Price would understand.
Ghost lingered near the bunk just long enough to make sure the note wouldn’t blow away, then walked out, hands in his pockets, his pace casual as he left for the training grounds.
Later that morning Price walked into the barracks mid-morning, having returned from a debriefing. He moved through the quiet hall, his attention immediately drawn to the small bundle of wildflowers resting on his bunk, their soft colours standing out against the stark military bedding.
For a moment, he simply stared, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he picked up the note, his thumb brushing over the words as he read. Thank you. It was simple, understated, and yet the sentiment came through clear as day.
Price glanced toward the doorway, half-expecting to see Ghost lurking nearby, but the hall was empty. A rare smile touched his lips, and he turned the note over in his hands, taking in each careful, deliberate stroke of Ghost’s handwriting.
From the training grounds, Ghost felt a strange sense of restlessness settle over him. He could almost picture Price’s reaction in his mind, the quiet understanding in his eyes as he read the note. The thought left him feeling both exposed and… something else. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for longer than he could remember.
As he went through the motions of training, he caught sight of Price standing near the edge of the grounds, the faintest hint of a smile on his face as he watched Ghost with that familiar, steady gaze. Their eyes met, and in that single look, Ghost felt the weight of everything he hadn’t said settle between them, understood without needing words.
They shared a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment—a warmth that ran deeper than any gesture, spoken or unspoken. And for once, Ghost allowed himself to linger in it, no longer questioning or resisting. Price had been patient, steady as ever, and now Ghost felt the rare, undeniable comfort of being seen.
With a small, almost imperceptible nod, Price acknowledged the flowers, the note, and everything Ghost had managed to say without saying it. Ghost’s lips twitched into a faint, rare smile in return, a silent promise that he understood, that he was here, and that, perhaps, he was ready to let this quiet connection grow, in his own way and in his own time.
Winter had settled heavily over the base, blanketing everything in a harsh chill that crept through even the thickest layers of gear. Ghost had returned late from a solo recon assignment, his face raw from the cold, his shoulders tense from hours of silence and vigilance.
When he pushed open the barracks door, he was met with warmth—the dull orange glow of a small electric heater in the corner and, most notably, the sight of Price waiting for him, seated on the edge of his bunk with a faint, unreadable smile.
Price looked up as Ghost entered, his gaze calm and steady, but beneath that calm was something warm, something Ghost had come to recognise as distinctly his.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” Price murmured, his voice low, familiar in a way that Ghost now found… reassuring.
Ghost nodded, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it drop to the floor. His movements were slow, cautious, but his gaze never left Price’s, and when Price extended his hand, a simple invitation, Ghost didn’t hesitate.
Stepping forward, he took Price’s hand, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm, and allowed himself to relax. Without a word, Price guided him down onto the bunk, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a quiet, steady gesture that held all the familiarity they’d built up over the last few months. Ghost leaned into him, resting his head against Price’s shoulder, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath him.
The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the soft hum of the heater and the warmth that settled over them, a balm against the cold world outside.
After a few moments, Price spoke, his voice a low murmur in Ghost’s ear. “I waited up for you. Thought you’d want some company.”
Ghost’s mouth twitched in a faint, rare smile beneath his mask, and he nodded, his hand resting on Price’s arm, fingers tracing absently over the familiar texture of his sleeve. “Guess I’m gettin’ used to that.”
Without another word, Price’s hand moved to Ghost’s back, fingers tracing gentle, steady circles against his spine, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes. Ghost closed his eyes, letting himself settle into the warmth of Price’s touch. It was rare for him to let down his guard so fully, but here, with Price, it felt natural. Right.
They sat like that for a long while, each content in the quiet presence of the other. Finally, Ghost felt Price’s hand shift, his fingers brushing up along the edge of Ghost’s mask, his touch hesitant but sure.
“Mind if I…?” Price asked softly, his gaze meeting Ghost’s, his voice holding that steady patience Ghost had come to trust.
Ghost’s heartbeat quickened, but he gave a single nod, his gaze unwavering as Price lifted the edge of the mask, just enough to reveal his face. Price’s eyes softened as he took him in, and with a quiet intimacy that felt deeply grounding, he leaned forward, his lips brushing Ghost’s in a soft, lingering kiss.
The touch was gentle, a warm, unspoken promise that settled into Ghost’s chest, and he found himself leaning into it, his hand resting on the back of Price’s neck, grounding them both in the quiet, shared affection.
When they parted, Price’s thumb brushed over Ghost’s cheek, his expression calm, a rare and unguarded fondness in his eyes.
“Welcome home,” he murmured, his voice steady and low, each word carrying a weight Ghost felt settle warmly over him.
Ghost’s lips curved into the faintest smile. He rested his forehead against Price’s, letting the warmth and comfort of the moment sink in. He didn’t need to say anything; Price’s presence was enough, the closeness between them a quiet affirmation of everything they’d come to mean to each other.
They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the silence heavy with understanding and the promise of something neither of them had thought they’d ever find—until now.