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Simon “Ghost” Riley had never been the type to indulge. Food, comfort, even basic self-care had been secondary for most of his life. Years of war, hunger, and survival had carved his body into something hard, lean, functional—a tool for violence, nothing more.
But things had changed. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had people looking out for him—Price, Gaz, Soap. Brothers in arms who had wormed their way into his life without him realising it. They shared meals, joked around in the mess hall, and nagged him when he skipped out on eating. At first, Ghost hadn’t thought much of it. He still ate like a soldier—quick, efficient, only what was necessary.
Yet, somewhere along the way, the team had gotten through to him. Soap’s constant teasing, Gaz’s warm encouragement, Price’s silent but steady approval—it had made a difference. He started eating more, and not just to stave off hunger. He actually began to enjoy meals with them, savouring the sense of normalcy they offered, something grounding amid the chaos of their lives.
And, slowly, his body began to change.
At first, it was subtle. A little extra padding here, a bit more muscle definition there. But over the months, Ghost had softened in ways he didn’t anticipate. His arms filled out, his chest bulked up, and his once-rigid frame now carried a softness that felt... foreign. His cheeks, once sharp and hollow, had rounded out slightly, giving his face a healthier, almost boyish look when his mask was off.
It wasn’t just his body that had changed. Ghost had grown more comfortable around the team. After years of hiding behind his mask, he’d started taking it off around them more often, even in casual settings. His scars, once a source of shame and a symbol of his past, no longer felt like something he had to hide. He’d thought they were past all that—the staring, the whispers, the discomfort.
But lately, things had shifted.
It started subtly, with lingering looks from the team. He’d catch Price’s gaze lingering on him a second too long or Soap quickly averting his eyes when Ghost noticed him staring. Gaz, usually easy-going and unflappable, would get flustered, tripping over his words whenever Ghost was around without his gear. The once casual, comfortable atmosphere between them began to feel... strange.
One day, after a particularly gruelling mission, they returned to base for some downtime. Ghost, exhausted but relaxed, peeled off his tactical gear, stripping down to a tank top and his cargo pants. It was nothing out of the ordinary. They’d all seen each other in less—hell, they’d shared cramped quarters for months on end. But as Ghost stretched, the fabric of his tank top clinging to his chest, he noticed the quiet.
He glanced around. Price was sitting at the table, pretending to look over mission briefs, but his eyes kept darting up to Ghost. Soap, who was lounging on the couch, was openly staring, his mouth slightly agape. Gaz, on the floor doing some light stretches, had frozen mid-motion, his eyes fixed on Ghost’s back.
Ghost narrowed his eyes. “What?”
Gaz quickly looked away, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Soap’s face flushed, and Price cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the mission report in front of him.
Ghost didn’t push it. He wasn’t one to make small talk, and if something was bothering them, they’d bring it up eventually. But the moment stuck with him, gnawing at the edges of his mind. That night, as he lay in his bunk, Ghost found himself running his hands over his body. He felt different. He’d never been one to care about appearances—his body was a weapon, not something to be admired. But now, with the team acting... weird, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.
The stares continued over the next few weeks, becoming more frequent and more obvious. During training, he’d catch Soap and Gaz whispering to each other, stealing glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. Price, usually composed, had even been caught a few times, his eyes tracking Ghost’s movements with an expression that Ghost couldn’t quite place—somewhere between surprise and something else Ghost didn’t want to name.
They were mid-training, running drills, and Ghost had lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was a quick motion, over in seconds, but Gaz caught a glimpse of his abdomen—no longer all sharp, cutting edges. He had some softness there now, a bit of a pudge that made him look more… human, more real. And damn, if Gaz wasn’t distracted.
He nudged Soap, whispering under his breath. "Mate… you seein' this?"
Soap had already been watching Ghost out of the corner of his eye, noting the way his shoulders filled his shirt more than usual. The way his arms flexed when he wasn’t even trying. Soap’s mind had been wandering for days, just trying to figure out when the hell Ghost had started looking… like that. But now, as Gaz pointed it out, he could barely stop himself from gawking.
"You’re not imagining it," Soap muttered, his voice low, careful not to let Ghost overhear. "Bloody hell… since when did he—"
"Fill out?" Gaz finished, both just a little wide-eyed.
Ghost wasn’t oblivious. Sure, the changes in his body hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind—he’d been through hell, after all, so his appearance wasn’t exactly a priority. But it was the way the team’s eyes lingered on him a bit longer than usual, the whispers that fell silent whenever he entered a room, that started to raise his suspicions. At first, he thought it was about his scars. It always came back to those, didn’t it?
The scars, the mask—two pieces of him that he thought 141 had come to accept. No, more than that, he thought they’d moved past them. Over time, Ghost had allowed himself to feel comfortable with them, even around his team. He’d spent so long hiding every part of himself, but with them, he had let down that wall. He’d even taken his mask off more often.
But lately… the staring was starting again.
It happened again in the armoury. Ghost was fiddling with some new gear, bent over one of the benches as he adjusted his holster. His shirt pulled tight across his back, and his arms flexed with every movement. Soap, Gaz, and Price, who had been in the room discussing plans, suddenly found themselves at a loss for words.
Gaz elbowed Soap, a grin threatening to break across his face. “Tell me you saw that.”
Soap didn’t respond at first, his mouth slightly open as he blinked hard, dragging his eyes away from the sight. He nudged Price, who, for once, seemed caught off guard.
“I saw it, I saw it,” Price grumbled, trying to shake off whatever strange hold Ghost’s movements had over them. “Eyes front, Sergeant.”
But none of them could look away for long.
Ghost wasn’t stupid. He could sense something was up, feel their eyes on him like a weight, and it set him on edge. He had been fine for months—more than fine, actually. He hadn’t felt this comfortable in years. But the stares were getting to him. It felt like they were scrutinising him again, analysing his scars or whatever else might have been wrong with him. Had he let his guard down too much?
Over the next few days, Ghost started wearing his mask more, even in the relative safety of the base. He kept his shirt on longer after training and avoided letting them see too much of him. It wasn’t anything obvious, at least not to someone who didn’t know him. But the team? They knew him well enough to pick up on it.
Price was the first to notice the shift. One evening, while the team was lounging in the rec room, Ghost sat a little further away than usual, his mask pulled back over his face even though they weren’t in the field.
“Simon,” Price said softly, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.
Ghost didn’t respond at first, not wanting to meet his gaze. Eventually, though, he glanced up, catching the hint of concern in Price’s eyes.
“What?” Ghost muttered, his voice a little harsher than intended.
Price studied him for a moment. “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
Price frowned, his eyes flicking to the mask Ghost hadn’t taken off in hours. “More than usual.”
Soap and Gaz, sitting nearby, exchanged glances. They had noticed it too.
Ghost shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of their stares again. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem?” Gaz echoed, his voice softer than usual. “Mate, you’ve been… you’ve been hiding more. Mask’s on a lot these days.”
“Yeah, I thought you were getting used to not wearing it around us,” Soap added, his tone light, trying to ease the tension. “It’s not like we haven’t seen you before.”
Ghost’s jaw clenched, the quiet tick of frustration rippling through him. He took a slow breath before he spoke. “I thought you lot were over my scars,” he said, his voice low and controlled, but there was an edge to it—a sharpness born of insecurity.
The room went still.
“What?” Soap frowned, the teasing edge gone from his voice. “Your scars? Mate, we haven’t thought about those in ages.”
“Then why the hell are you staring at me all the time?” Ghost’s eyes flickered between them, a frown pulling at his brow. “You think I haven’t noticed? You all keep looking like you’ve seen a bloody ghost.”
Price, Soap, and Gaz exchanged glances, none of them quite sure how to respond at first. But it was Gaz who finally spoke up, his tone gentle, almost embarrassed.
“It’s not your scars, mate,” Gaz said, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s… well…”
Price let out a soft sigh, leaning forward. “Simon, it’s not what you think.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is it?”
Soap cleared his throat awkwardly, his cheeks tinged pink as he spoke. “You’ve just… you’ve been changing. Physically, I mean. Since you started eating more.”
Ghost stared at him, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Price chuckled softly under his breath. “You’ve filled out a bit, Simon. We’ve just been… noticing.”
Ghost blinked, still not quite understanding what they were getting at. “So you’re staring because I’ve gained weight?”
“It’s not just that,” Gaz said, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “You look… well, you look good.”
Ghost’s brow furrowed deeper. “Good?”
Soap leaned back, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Mate, you’ve filled out in all the right places. We’re not staring because of your scars—we’re staring because…” he trailed off, glancing at Price for help.
Price sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before finishing the thought. “We’re staring because you’re bloody attractive, Simon.”
Ghost froze, his brain short-circuiting at the admission. He stared at Price, then at Gaz and Soap, searching their faces for any hint of sarcasm. But all he found were three pairs of eyes looking at him with a mix of admiration, maybe even affection.
“What?” Ghost’s voice came out flat, as if he hadn’t quite processed the words.
“Yeah,” Gaz added, a little too quickly. “You’ve got… you know… pecs. And your arms—”
He gestured vaguely. “We just… well, you’re kinda—”
“Hot,” Soap finished, blunt as ever.
Ghost blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find something—anything—to say. His cheeks, the same ones the team had secretly been melting over, flushed red under his mask.
“I—” he stammered. “You… you lot are bloody ridiculous.”
Price smiled softly. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.”
There was a long moment of silence before Ghost finally stood up, still flustered but trying to regain some semblance of control. “I’m going to bed,” he muttered, turning toward the door.
“Sweet dreams, handsome,” Soap called after him, earning a glare that was only half-serious.
As Ghost disappeared down the hallway, the three of them exchanged glances, a sense of victory hanging in the air.
“Well,” Gaz said after a moment, grinning. “That could’ve gone worse.”
Price chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll see how he handles it tomorrow.”
Soap smirked. “Oh, he’ll come around. You’ll see.”
And despite the awkwardness of the conversation, all three of them knew one thing for certain: they were all a little in love with Simon Riley. Whether or not anything would come of it was still up in the air, but for now, they were content just being there, admiring him from a distance, knowing that, deep down, Ghost was starting to accept that he was more than just the scars that had once defined him.