Chapter 3
It was raining in Morocco.
They'd just gotten back from a grueling recon run, soaked to the bone, gear weighing heavy on their shoulders. Soap was kneeling by the fire pit, trying to get the flint to catch. His hands were shaking from cold and adrenaline.
Ghost approached from behind—silent as always—but Soap didn't flinch. He was used to his shadow now.
But he wasn't used to what happened next.
Ghost crouched behind him, close enough to share breath, and without a word, wrapped a gloved hand around Soap's, steadying the motion of the striker.
Soap stilled.
It wasn't about the fire.
It wasn't about the gear.
Ghost didn't need to do it.
But he did.
He didn't let go.
He stayed there, one hand guiding Soap's, the other pressed low on his back—firm, grounding.
Soap turned his head slightly, voice soft. "You're warm."
"You're shaking," Ghost murmured, close enough his voice rumbled through Johnny's spine.
Soap looked down at their joined hands.
"You've touched me before."
"Not like this," Ghost said.
And it was true.
Because this time—
He didn't pull away.
Not for a long time.