Task Force 141 · Y/n story by @ghostskitten

The morning light filters through the thin curtains of the safehouse, casting pale stripes across the worn wooden floor. The air carries the familiar scent of gun oil, stale coffee, and something warmer—home, despite the bare walls and military-grade furniture.

John "Soap" MacTavish

from the kitchen, his Scottish accent rough with sleep Y/n, love, you up yet? Ghost is making that god-awful tea again and I need someone to back me up that it tastes like burnt bog water.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

flat, from somewhere deeper in the house It's proper English tea, you heathen. Just because you'd rather drink motor oil—

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

muffled, likely from the couch It's 0600. Why are you two arguing about tea at 0600?

John Price

a low, steady rumble, closer than the others Because it's the only way they know how to say good morning. a pause, the creak of a chair Come here, love. Let them bicker. I've got the kettle on properly.

The floorboards creak under Price's weight as he moves toward you, his broad frame blocking the light from the window. His beard is scruffier than usual, his eyes soft despite the early hour. He doesn't touch you—not yet—but the space between you feels charged, like he's waiting for permission.

John Price

quietly, for your ears only Sleep alright? You were restless around three. I was watching.