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John “Soap” MacTavish had been called a lot of things in his life – scrappy, stubborn, a bloody menace on the field – but never "controversial." Until now.
He didn’t mean for it to happen.
One minute, he was sitting in a stadium tunnel with floodlights still buzzing above, sweat drying on his skin after the team had secured a place in the championship finale. The cameras were in his face, mics shoved close. The usual post-match adrenaline. He was grinning, bruised, a little too cocky.
And then the interviewer – smiling, all polished teeth and calculated charm – asked: “So, John, there’s a lot of chatter off the field too. The fans want to know – who’s caught your eye? You’ve been linked with a few women lately…”
Soap had laughed. Too loud. Too easy. He was tired of those questions, always wrapped in some weird kind of flirtation or assumption. He wiped at the back of his neck and shrugged.
“Aye, I’ve dated a few, sure. Don’t really care much about gender though. If I like someone, I like someone. S’about connection, isn’t it?”
And that was it.
The moment the air shifted. The interviewer blinked, hesitated, then smiled again like nothing happened. The rest of the questions blurred into static. Soap barely remembered them. He showered, he went home. Slept like a rock.
By morning, it was everywhere.
RUGBY STAR JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH COMES OUT AS BISEXUAL IN CASUAL INTERVIEW
IS RUGBY STAR “SOAP” MACTAVISH QUEERBAITING? FANS DIVIDED OVER STAR’S COMMENTS
SOCIAL MEDIA ERUPTS OVER MACTAVISH’S “GENDER DOESN’T MATTER” STATEMENT
His phone blew up. Some of his teammates texted immediately – “Proud of you, mate” and “Bout time the world knew, eh?” Others just sent flame emojis or the thumbs-up. His mum called, half-laughing, half-worried: “Johnny, you always did have a knack for getting into the middle of things, didn't you?”
He assured her he was fine.
But he wasn’t really.
Because the comments started coming in. At first, it was support. A lot of it. Fans with pride flags in their bios, people thanking him for speaking up. But then came the other side.
“This is just a PR stunt.”
“He’s never dated a man, this is attention-seeking.”
“Another straight bloke trying to score woke points.”
Soap could take hits on the pitch, no problem. Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder – hell, once he played an entire half with a minor concussion. But this?
This felt personal in a way nothing else did.
He tried to shake it off. Focus on training. Run drills harder, lift heavier, laugh louder in the locker room like nothing was wrong. But even when he was sprinting toward the line, ball tucked close, cleats chewing up turf – he could feel it. The weight of eyes. Not the usual ones. Not the fans hoping he’d make a break. These were dissecting, judging, speculating. Trying to put him in a box he’d never fit in.
The next press event, they didn’t ask about the match. Not once.
It was all:
“Would you say you identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community?”
“Do you worry about alienating fans?”
“You’ve only dated women publicly – can you speak to that?”
Soap smiled through it. Said the right things. Kept his voice steady, his jaw relaxed. But his hands were clenched into fists under the table.
He didn’t regret saying it. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was how loud everyone else had gotten about something that never should have been news in the first place.
And deep down, for the first time in a long time, John MacTavish didn’t know how to fix it.
~*~
Soap knew he was obligated to attend this press conference, but he was already regretting agreeing to it.
It was supposed to be about the new season – team strategy, recent transfers, the kind of shit that actually mattered. But within the first two questions, he knew exactly how it was going to go.
“John, have you had time to reflect on the public reaction to your comments last month?”
“Do you feel pressure to be a role model now for the bisexual community?”
“Some critics say you’ve only ever dated women – can you clarify if you’re actually planning to date men?”
Soap blinked. Bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Tried to make a joke out of it.
“Are we gonna talk about rugby at any point today, or am I just here for the gossip column?”
A few of the journalists laughed – some awkwardly, others not at all. The moderator quickly jumped in with a question about training regimens, but the damage was done. Every follow-up spiralled back to the same damn place.
Soap pushed through the rest of the presser with a tight smile and clipped answers. When it was finally over, he tugged his cap low and walked off the stage without a backward glance. By the time he was in the back hallway, his jaw ached from clenching.
The bar was a quiet one. Local. Dark wood, no flashing lights. Music just loud enough to keep conversations private. He was already halfway through a Pepsi (the season had started and he was banned from drinking pints) when Gaz slid into the booth opposite him, wearing civvies that still somehow made him look military – clean lines, squared shoulders, that barely-concealed read-the-room-in-five-seconds alertness.
Gaz grinned like he hadn’t just spent months overseas. “You look like someone pissed in your protein shake.”
Soap huffed. “They may as well have.”
Gaz flagged down the bartender and ordered a beer before leaning back in his seat. “Saw the presser. You handled it fine.”
Soap rolled his eyes. “Aye, if by ‘fine’ you mean barely stopping myself from flipping the table.”
Gaz chuckled. “Now that would’ve gone viral.”
Soap didn’t smile.
Gaz’s own smile faltered a little, and he reached into his jacket pocket, sliding his phone across the table. “Thought you should see this one.”
Soap looked. Another article.
MACTAVISH’S NON-ANSWER ABOUT HIS DATING HISTORY RAISES MORE QUESTIONS: IS HE HIDING SOMETHING?
He let out a short, bitter breath. “Bloody hell.”
Gaz leaned forward, elbows on the sticky wood. “They’re not gonna let this go, are they?”
Soap didn’t answer right away. He just sat back in the booth, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the scratched tabletop like it had personally betrayed him.
“Doesn’t matter what I say. If I joke, they say I’m not taking it seriously. If I don’t joke, they say I’m hiding something. If I talk about a girl I dated, they say I’m straight. If I don’t, I’m trying too hard.” He shook his head. “I’m a rugby player, Gaz. All I want is to do is play the fuckin’ game.”
There was a long pause. The kind of silence that sits between people who’ve known each other too long to fill it with anything cheap.
Then Soap let out a dry, humourless laugh. “Maybe I should just have a boyfriend. Make it simple. Get papped holding hands with some bloke and shut ‘em all up.”
Gaz raised a brow. “Go full romcom?”
Soap grinned, just a little. “Aye. Do the whole thing. Cozy walks, handsy at restaurants, kiss outside the stadium. Maybe then they’d talk about my passing game instead of who I might kiss on a night out.”
Gaz took a swig of his beer, eyeing him over the rim. “You know…” he said slowly, “what you need is someone who can’t be in the spotlight. Someone whose life doesn’t allow it. Can’t dig up what you can’t find.”
Soap snorted. “Right. So I should just date a spy or something?”
Gaz shrugged, and his grin turned sly. “Something like that.”
Soap leaned back, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re scheming. I know that look.”
Gaz only sipped his beer, saying nothing.
And for the first time all day, Soap felt the tightness in his chest loosen – just a little.
It was early afternoon, a few days later, and Soap was already halfway through a post-training meal that could feed a small village – grilled chicken, rice, roasted veg, and something green he wouldn’t name if pressed – when Gaz walked into the café like he owned the place.
“Alright, Johnny?” he said, sliding into the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation.
“You’re late,” Soap muttered around a mouthful of rice. “I’m wasting away.”
Gaz eyed the mountain of food. “Yeah, looks dire. You lose a kilo and your coach will have a heart attack.”
Soap shoved a forkful of chicken into his mouth and waved a hand as if to say, get on with it then. He was sore from drills, still buzzed from the high of training, and – he’d admit it – glad to see Gaz again. Having someone who wasn’t a teammate or a press officer in his space these days was like breathing air he didn’t know he’d been missing.
Gaz didn’t touch his menu.
Instead, he leaned in with that familiar glint in his eye. “So, I’ve been thinking about that conversation we had at the bar.”
Soap blinked. “What, the one where I said I’d fake a relationship with a shadowy government agent to get the press off my back?”
“Exactly that one,” Gaz said, deadly serious. “And I think I’ve got just the man for the job.”
Soap paused, fork hovering. “You what?”
Gaz smirked. “My lieutenant. Name’s Simon Riley. Callsign ‘Ghost.’”
Soap nearly choked. “Ghost? You mean the one you told me punched out a guy for calling him a nickname? The one who wears a mask to staff meetings? That Ghost?”
“The very same.”
Soap leaned back in his chair, staring at Gaz like he’d grown a second head. “You want me to pretend to be dating a man who probably doesn’t even believe in dating?”
Gaz gave a casual shrug, way too pleased with himself. “He’s private. No social media, no paper trail, won’t say more than five words to anyone he doesn’t trust. Media couldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. He’s perfect.”
“Perfectly terrifying,” Soap muttered. “I’ve never even met the man and I already know he’d sooner strangle me with his bootlaces than hold my hand in public.”
“He owes me a favour,” Gaz said, tone smug. “A big one. He’ll do it.”
Soap stared at him.
“Gaz,” he said carefully, “I was joking. You know that, right?”
Gaz leaned in, elbows on the table. “You say that, but were you really? You’re tired. You’re pissed. This whole media circus is driving you mental. And this? This could work.”
“You want me to pretend to be shagging your superior officer.”
“Only in the tabloids. You barely have to see each other. A few photos, a few sightings, that’s it.”
Soap buried his face in his hands. “This is insane.”
Gaz grinned. “Yep. But tell me you’re not tempted.”
He was, annoyingly.
Soap sighed and peeked through his fingers. “You really think this Ghost fella will go for it?”
Gaz picked up a piece of chicken from Soap’s plate like it was his right. “He’s got his reasons. He won’t like it, but he’ll do it.”
Soap dropped his hands and gave Gaz a flat look. “If I end up in a shallow grave in the woods, I’m haunting you.”
Gaz smirked. “That’s fair.”
Soap didn’t expect much when Gaz texted him that afternoon – just a cheeky update or a meme, maybe a half-hearted apology for nicking his chicken last lunch.
Instead, he got:
Gaz: He said yes.
Gaz: Meeting tonight.
Gaz: Your place.
Soap stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.
Soap: Are you joking??
Gaz: Do I look like I’m joking.
Gaz: Don’t answer that.
Gaz: Just clean your flat and wear something that doesn’t look like you rolled off a locker room floor.
By the time the evening rolled around, Soap had tidied his flat in a half-hearted panic – shoved boots into closets, wiped down kitchen counters, even lit a candle for some reason he immediately regretted. He wasn’t nervous, per se. He just didn’t know what to expect from the infamous Simon “Ghost” Riley. The man was practically folklore at this point. A myth wrapped in combat gear and menace.
Soap had heard plenty of the stories about the guy from Gaz. Gruff one-liners. A temper with a hair trigger. Once bit a bloke's knuckles clean open in hand-to-hand. That kind of thing.
So when the knock came, it felt more like a summons than a visit.
He opened the door to find Gaz – grinning – and behind him, a figure that immediately pulled the air out of the hallway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clad in black. Military posture so rigid it looked painful. A plain black hoodie, combat boots, dark jeans, and a black medical mask over the lower half of his face. His hood was up, but even without the full skull getup, Soap would’ve picked him out of a crowd easy.
Ghost.
The man’s eyes flicked over Soap – quick, assessing, unreadable.
“So,” Soap said, stepping aside. “This is happening.”
“Unfortunately,” Ghost rumbled, voice low and about as cheerful as a thunderstorm.
“Lovely,” Soap muttered, shutting the door behind them.
Gaz clapped his hands together like this was a party. “Right. Let’s get down to business.”
They settled awkwardly in Soap’s living room. Ghost didn’t sit – he stood in the corner like a bouncer at a backroom poker game. Soap slouched on the couch with his arms crossed, already second-guessing his life choices. Gaz took the armchair like a man about to give a TED Talk.
“So here’s the plan,” Gaz began. “You’re going to ‘introduce’ your boyfriend- ” he gestured at Ghost with a flick of his wrist “-to the world. Just a few low-key steps to start. A grainy photo or two. Maybe someone catches you two leaving a café. No kissing, no over-the-top displays – just believable proximity.”
Soap raised a brow. “You want me to soft-launch Ghost.”
“Exactly.”
Ghost exhaled through his nose and said to Gaz: “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m invested,” Gaz said. “We’ll control the narrative. Nothing too flashy. No full face shots. Ghost wears the mask, sunglasses, hoodie, whatever keeps his identity safe. If someone asks, Soap says he’s dating someone private. Military, even. Boom – instant mystery, and the press stops asking if he’s faking it.”
Soap rubbed a hand over his face. “This is absolutely mental.”
“Got a better idea?”
“…no.”
They sat in silence for a beat. Ghost still hadn’t moved from the corner. He looked like he was plotting an exit strategy through the nearest wall.
Soap finally turned toward him. “And you’re… okay with this?”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Gaz saved my life once. I said I’d repay it.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
Gaz grinned. “You’ll barely need to interact. Just a few outings. I’ll coordinate everything – locations, times, angles.”
Soap looked between them. “So what, we’re dating on Tuesdays and Thursdays now?”
“Only if you want matching calendars,” Gaz quipped.
Ghost finally moved – crossing his arms over his chest. “Let’s just get it over with.”
Soap stared up at him, then muttered, “Romantic.”
“Don’t push it.”
Gaz clapped his hands again, standing. “Right then. First sighting’s on Friday. Coffee shop near the Thames. Casual. Bring sunglasses. Try not to look like you’re plotting a murder.”
“I’m not making any promises,” Ghost said.
Soap leaned his head back against the couch cushion with a sigh. What had he gotten himself into?
~*~
The sun was just beginning to break through the thick London cloud cover on Friday morning, three days later, when Soap stepped out of the quiet café near the Thames, takeaway cup in hand and a man who could easily pass for a high-end hitman at his side.
Ghost wore the same all-black ensemble from before – hood up, black mask snug over the lower half of his face, sunglasses hiding everything else. If he hadn’t been six feet of brute intimidation, he might’ve passed for any other Londoner dodging attention. But Ghost didn’t dodge attention – he radiated don’t even think about it energy like it was his job. Because, technically, it was.
Soap kept his sunglasses on and his head down as they merged into the foot traffic along the pavement. His pulse thudded just a little too loud in his ears. Not fear, exactly – he was used to eyes on him. But this was different. Manufactured. Artificial.
It felt weird.
“Act natural,” Gaz’s voice crackled through the tiny comm Soap had reluctantly agreed to wear. “Walk like you’re fond of each other, not like you’re heading into a hostage exchange.”
Soap rolled his eyes so hard they almost knocked his shades off. “You gave us comms, mate. You do realize this isn’t an op, yeah?”
“I absolutely realize that,” Gaz replied, far too cheerful. “Now, Ghost, tighten formation. You look like his disgruntled bodyguard.”
Ghost grunted. “I am disgruntled.”
Soap’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’re not doing a great job pretending we’re dating. Try walking like you like me a little.”
“I don’t.”
“Not even a little?”
“Negative.”
Gaz’s voice cut in again. “Alright, copy that, children. We’re going for subtle PDA. Link arms.”
Soap faltered mid-step. “Come again?”
“You heard me. Link. Arms. People don’t just walk in a perfectly parallel line unless they’re politicians or about to duel.”
Soap turned his head just slightly, raising a brow at Ghost. “Well?”
Ghost looked straight ahead. “You do it.”
“Afraid of holding hands, Ghost?”
“Afraid of strangling you with mine.”
But he extended his arm.
Soap hesitated for a second, then looped his arm through Ghost’s. It was… awkward. Ghost was warm – solid in a way that reminded Soap of old stone walls and bulletproof glass. Soap’s hand settled just above the crook of his elbow. Ghost didn’t flinch, but his shoulders went a touch stiffer.
“There,” Soap muttered. “Aren’t we adorable.”
“Keep walking,” Ghost said darkly.
“I’m walking.”
“You’re limping.”
“I trained this morning.”
Gaz crackled in again, smug as ever. “Now we’re talking. Looking domestic already. Alright, slow down – Soap, tilt your head toward him a bit. Ghost, pretend you tolerate joy.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Ghost muttered under his breath.
They strolled – slowly, awkwardly – down the riverside, passing a handful of people out on morning walks, no one paying them more than a glance. Ghost was still upright as a board, but Soap leaned in just enough to sell it. Or tried to.
Then he spotted Gaz across the street, camera partially concealed under a hoodie like this was some kind of MI6 surveillance gig.
Soap smirked. “This your hobby now?”
“Keep your mouth shut,” Gaz muttered through the comm. “You’re ruining the frame.”
“Next time you’re in a trench, I’m bringing a Nikon.”
“You’ll be lucky if I don’t Photoshop you into a bad romcom poster at this point.”
Ghost made a low, grumbling noise, and Soap glanced up at him – eyes catching on the little furrow between his brows above the edge of the mask. For a man built like a tank, Ghost had surprisingly expressive eyes when you looked closely. And right now, those eyes were screaming kill me now.
Soap sighed. “Alright. Let’s get this walk over with.”
Ghost’s voice was flat. “Never again.”
“Give it two weeks. You’ll be begging to hold my hand in public.”
Ghost gave a low grunt that could’ve meant not bloody likely or I will end you, but he didn’t let go.
And Soap didn’t pull away.
The photo hit the internet sometime around midnight.
Soap wasn’t even looking for it. He was in bed, phone in one hand, scrolling through match highlights and trying to ignore the ache in his calves from a brutal day of drills. But then he saw it.
A tweet. Then two. Then a tagged Instagram post.
Then six more.
RUGBY STAR JOHN MACTAVISH SPOTTED ARM-IN-ARM WITH MYSTERY MAN: COULD THIS BE A NEW BOYFRIEND?
PRIVATE AND PROTECTIVE: FANS SPECULATE ABOUT RUGBYPLAYER SOAP’S POTENTIAL NEW PARTNER.
Soap stared at the screen, thumb frozen. The photo was grainy, angled from across the street – but it was unmistakably them. Him and Ghost, walking slowly along the Thames. Arms linked. Heads tilted slightly toward each other.
The internet had gone feral.
Half the posts were supportive:
“If Soap’s dating some tactical goth in a hoodie, I support him 100%.”
“They look so normal together. Like, real. Not PR crap.”
“Whoever he is, he keeps Soap’s business private. Respect.”
Others were speculative:
“Who is the mystery man? No name, no face, no leaks. Either he’s very private or MI6.”
“I’d kill for a relationship where the guy wears a mask and doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“This has to be a soft launch. Soap’s too calculated for a random photo op.”
Soap exhaled slowly and let his phone drop to his chest. He didn’t know if he felt relieved or exposed. Both, maybe.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Nice arm acting.
Unknown Number: Next time maybe don’t stomp like you’re storming a trench.
Soap blinked at the screen, then smirked as he realised who had texted him.
Soap: Didn’t realize the theatrics weren’t up to your standards.
Soap: You ever not walk like you’re expecting a sniper?
There was a pause.
Ghost: You ever not talk?
Soap laughed under his breath.
Over the next few days, things changed. Subtly, but still.
A couple of his teammates pulled him aside during cooldown and grinned at him like proud older brothers.
“Is that the boyfriend?” one of them asked, holding up a phone with the photo.
Soap snorted. “Aye. He’s the strong, silent type.”
“No kidding. Bloke looked like he could choke out a bear.”
“Probably has.”
They didn’t press. Didn’t tease. Just nodded, smacked his back, and moved on.
It was… good. More support than he expected. And for once, the media buzz wasn’t chewing on his personal life like a pack of wolves. The story had changed. Shifted. His name was still in the headlines, sure – but there was less venom. Less doubt.
And the texts from Ghost didn’t stop.
Soap: What do you eat anyway? Protein and regret?
Ghost: Beef jerky. You? Feelings and carbs?
Soap started looking forward to them, even if Ghost never used emojis and had the emotional range of a tactical backpack.
~*~
A week later, Gaz sent them both a group text.
Gaz: Next outing. Saturday. Bookstore. Low-traffic but visible.
Gaz: You’ll browse. Casual, flirty, but not suspicious.
Gaz: Got it?
Soap: Bookstore?
Soap: What, we’re starring in an indie romance now?
Ghost: You’re carrying the bags.
Soap: Only if you pay for coffee after. Like a real boyfriend.
Ghost: You’re pushing it.
When Saturday rolled around, the awkwardness was still there, but it was different now.
They met just outside the bookshop, both dressed down – Ghost in his ever-present hoodie and mask, Soap in a windbreaker and jeans. No cameras yet, but Gaz would be lurking. Somewhere.
They gave each other a nod.
“Ready?” Soap asked, shifting on his feet.
Ghost just jerked his head once. “Let’s get it over with.”
Inside, the plan was simple: browse together, laugh a bit, look like a couple who were maybe trying to play it cool but couldn’t help hovering near each other.
It was awkward at first – Ghost barely touched the books, and Soap was hyperaware of every movement – but somewhere around the fourth aisle, it started to feel… not easy, but manageable.
Ghost passed him a book without speaking. Soap quipped something dumb in return. Ghost huffed – maybe a laugh. Soap smiled.
Then Gaz’s voice came through the comm again: “Alright, Romeo and Juliet. Do something cute. Point at a book or some shit.”
Soap didn’t even think – he leaned slightly toward Ghost and murmured, “What d’you reckon, this one? Spy thrillers your type?”
Ghost’s eyes flicked to the book, then back to him. “You wouldn’t last a day in one.”
Soap grinned. “I bet I’d look good holding a gun.”
Ghost gave a quiet hum. “You’d look good shutting up.”
Soap blinked.
He wasn’t sure that was a compliment.
But he didn’t mind the way Ghost said it.
The texts kept coming.
What started as one-line jabs had slowly evolved into something else – still blunt, still Ghost’s signature deadpan, but with a rhythm Soap was starting to like. The kind of quiet back-and-forth that snuck up on you. Comfort wrapped in sarcasm.
Soap: Do you even read books? I forgot to ask when we were at the shop.
Ghost: Yes.
Soap: You’re joking.
Ghost: Why’s that surprising?
Soap: Because you look like you think novels are a form of weakness.
Ghost: You talk like not reading is a personality trait.
Soap: Fair.
Soap: What kind, then?
Ghost: Crime.
Ghost: History.
Ghost: Military nonfiction.
Soap: Jesus, are you trying to prove every stereotype?
Ghost: There was a poetry phase once.
Soap stared at the screen when that one came through, then laughed out loud in the locker room, drawing a few looks from his teammates.
Soap: What kind of poetry?
Ghost: The broody kind.
Soap: So… all of it.
Ghost: Exactly.
~*~
The first home game of the season was scheduled for the next Saturday afternoon. On Friday morning, Soap was running drills when his coach clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“You focused, MacTavish?”
“Always,” Soap said, bouncing slightly on his toes.
The coach gave him a knowing look. “Good. 'Cause we’ve got a crowd expecting a win – and a few of your teammates said your… fella might be in the stands?”
Soap blinked. “Wait – what?”
One of the lads nearby grinned. “We just figured, first home game. Thought he’d be here for it.”
Soap snorted. “He’s not exactly a ‘cheering in the stands’ kinda guy.”
“But he is coming?” someone else called from behind a row of benches.
Soap hesitated. Then shrugged. “Dunno. I’ll ask.”
That night, in the group text Gaz insisted on creating for “coordination purposes,” Soap brought it up.
Soap: The lads want to know if Ghost’s coming to the match tomorrow.
Gaz: Obviously.
Ghost: I’m not sitting with a bunch of screaming fans.
Gaz: We’ve got VIP access.
Gaz: Family box.
Gaz: Minimal screaming.
Soap: Just enough screaming to feel loved.
Ghost: Jesus Christ.
Gaz: I’ll be there too. For moral support.
Gaz: And snacks.
Soap stared at the message thread, heart weirdly warm.
Soap: Alright then. I’ll leave two tickets at the gate.
Game day hit like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart.
Soap played hard – scored plenty, assisted when needed. The energy of the crowd was massive, the stadium humming with hometown pride. His cleats tore up the turf, muscles burning, lungs on fire, and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t think about the media. Or the press. Or anything but the game.
They won.
31–19.
And when the final whistle blew and his teammates mobbed him, Soap looked up – just briefly – and saw two figures standing in the family box. Gaz, unmistakable even from this distance, dressed in the colours of Soap’s club. And next to him, Ghost. Black hoodie. Mask. Sunglasses. Arms crossed. Watching.
Not waving. Not smiling.
But there.
And somehow, that was enough.
The press conference was held in the main lounge an hour after the match, Soap still in his team tracksuit, hair damp from the shower. A wall of microphones. Flashing cameras. The usual drill.
For once, the questions were good.
“John, congratulations – how do you feel about starting the season with a win?”
“That pass in the second half – was that planned or instinct?”
“You looked sharp out there. What changed in the off-season?”
He answered them all with clear focus and a tired but real smile.
And then:
“Just one more question – John, there’s been a lot of interest in the man you’ve been spotted with recently. Can you confirm whether he’s your boyfriend?”
The room stilled.
Soap paused for half a second, then nodded once.
“Aye,” he said easily. “He is. He’s military, though, so privacy’s important to him. Hope people can respect that.”
There was a short beat of silence – surprised, but not uncomfortable.
Then another hand went up with a question about his strategy for next week’s match.
And that was it.
No follow-up. No pointed digging. No backhanded speculation.
Just a question about the game.
Soap felt his chest loosen like someone had finally untied the knot in his ribs.
Later that night, as he lay in bed with sore legs and a full heart, his phone buzzed.
Ghost: You played well.
Soap stared at the message. Smiled.
Soap: Thanks for coming.
There was a pause. Then:
Ghost: I meant what I said.
Ghost: You played well.
Soap stared at the screen for a long moment.
Soap: Did you just giving me a compliment?
Soap: Out of your own free will?
Ghost: Don’t get used to it.
Soap had never expected this whole mess to become routine.
But somehow, between training, texting, and very carefully staged public “dates,” it was starting to feel… easy.
Not normal, maybe. But something like it.
Soap: Did you watch my last match yet?
Ghost: Not unless someone dies dramatically in the last ten minutes.
Soap: You’re the worst fake boyfriend.
Ghost: You’re the worst fake celebrity.
Ghost: I didn’t even know who you were before Gaz roped me into this.
Soap blinked at his phone, laughing out loud. He was sprawled on his couch post-training, a sports drink in one hand and one sock halfway off.
Soap: Seriously?
Ghost: Seriously.
Ghost: Didn’t recognize your face. Still haven’t seen it without a bruise.
Soap: You wound me.
Ghost: Don’t tempt me. I could say something about that last pass you fumbled.
Soap: You said you don’t watch.
Ghost: Gaz sends clips.
Soap: Wait, you watch my highlight reels?
Ghost: Only the embarrassing ones.
Soap: You’re unbelievable.
Ghost: You’re easy to wind up.
Soap stared at that last message a little too long. There was no emoji, no punctuation. But he could feel the humour behind it. The gentle nudge under the words. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been missing that kind of banter – friendship with teeth and warmth all tangled together.
~*~
Their outings continued. Controlled, curated, semi-candid moments for the benefit of the cameras Gaz swore were “discreet.”
Lunch outside a museum. A late afternoon walk through a quiet park. One memorable visit to a tiny used bookshop where Ghost found a military memoir and Soap loudly claimed he’d only read it for the “gratuitous violence.”
They fell into an odd rhythm: Soap providing commentary, Ghost offering deadpan comebacks. Gaz’s camera caught them laughing. Quiet, subtle moments. A shared grin here, a look there.
Soap started to look forward to them. Not for the press. Not even for the cover story.
Just for Ghost.
He didn’t admit that part out loud. Not even to himself.
One Tuesday night, Soap sent a message without really thinking.
Soap: Movie night at mine? Not for PR. Just… something to do.
Ghost: What kind of movie?
Soap: Something with explosions so you don’t walk out.
Ghost: I’ll bring popcorn.
Soap stared at that message for a beat.
No hesitation. No jokes.
Just a yes.
Ghost showed up at Soap’s flat wearing the same black hoodie and mask he always did, but Soap was already getting good at reading his body language. His shoulders were relaxed. No tension in his stance. He was… comfortable.
They sat on the couch, spaced just close enough to share the popcorn bowl between them. The film was loud and violent and mostly forgettable – Soap picked it for Ghost, but by the halfway point, they were both offering sarcastic commentary over the dialogue.
“Who the hell runs toward the grenade?” Soap asked around a mouthful of popcorn.
“Same kind of idiot who plays a final with a broken toe,” Ghost replied flatly.
Soap snorted. “Did Gaz tell you about that?”
“Nope. Found the footage online. Your limp gave it away.”
Soap threw a piece of popcorn at him.
Ghost caught it. Ate it.
Soap blinked. “That’s disgusting and kind of impressive.”
“Thank you.”
By the end of the night, neither of them moved when the credits rolled. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the TV.
They didn’t talk about what this was. Didn’t break the surface.
But Ghost didn’t leave right away, and Soap didn’t want him to.
They texted more after that. Still sarcastic, still guarded – but the edges were softening.
Ghost: You’ve got a weird laugh.
Soap: What, not dignified enough for you?
Ghost: Sounds like you’re choking on sunlight.
Soap: That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
Ghost: You need better people around you if that’s true.
And maybe Soap did. But lately, Ghost was starting to feel like one of them.
A friend. A proper one. Not just a teammate. Not just a soldier doing him a favour.
Someone Soap could sit with in silence and not feel like he had to entertain.
Someone who showed up without being asked.
Someone who – despite all the masks, the distance, the quiet – stayed.
~*~
Soap couldn’t tell you the exact moment the air between them started to change.
It was small things, really.
The way Ghost lingered just a bit longer after their outings. The way texting at night had become… normal. Expected.
Comforting.
~*~
Their third game of the season was against one of the league's best, and the entire week before was brutal. Training doubled. Pressure mounted. Coach was on edge, and everyone else followed suit.
The stadium was packed. Weather hot. Soap played well – damn well – but they still lost by two points.
It stung.
Not the kind of failure that gutted you. Just enough to stick in your chest like gravel.
Soap didn’t check the press. Didn’t want to see the headlines dissecting missed chances or blurred plays. Didn’t care what pundits had to say about how “John MacTavish needed to lead from the front.”
He just wanted to shower, sleep, and forget.
He didn’t expect Ghost to be waiting near the locker room doors when he came out.
Wearing that same black hoodie with his mask on. Sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt. Unmoving. Watching.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” Soap said, trying not to sound too pleased. His voice was hoarse.
“Gaz talked me into it,” Ghost said. “Said it’d be good for the optics.”
Soap looked up at him, tired and buzzed on leftover adrenaline. “Right. PR.”
There was a pause.
Then Ghost added, more quietly, “You played hard.”
Soap blinked. “You actually watched?”
“I don’t come to this place for the hot dogs, MacTavish.”
That pulled a small, rough laugh from him. “Could’ve fooled me.”
They left together through the back exit, Ghost walking just a step behind. The air outside was muggy and thick. A few fans had gathered near the car park, but it was late – most of the press had cleared off hours ago.
Or so Soap thought.
The flash came first. Then the voice.
“MacTavish – Johnny – tough loss tonight! How does your boyfriend feel about it? Still got his approval?”
The camera came too close, shoved between them in the narrow alley behind the stadium.
Soap blinked under the bright light, mouth opening.
He didn’t get the chance to speak.
Ghost was in front of him in a second.
No hands raised. No threats. Just a solid wall of black hoodie and don’t fuck with me energy.
“Step back,” Ghost said, low and even. “Now.”
The journalist hesitated. Took one glance at Ghost’s stance – spine straight, chin lifted, mask like a second skin – and decided it wasn’t worth it. He muttered something under his breath and moved on.
Soap exhaled.
The adrenaline didn’t leave. It just shifted.
“Thanks,” he said, voice soft now.
Ghost turned slightly. Not enough to expose himself, just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Didn’t like how close he got.”
Soap stared at the side of his face, the curve of his jaw under the mask. That voice, flat but steady, had weight to it.
It felt weirdly comforting. Having someone stand up for him like that. The way Ghost’s arm briefly touched his back to steer him toward the car, or the way his head tilted like he was scanning the shadows out of instinct.
Soap certainly could get used to having someone like this around.
Later that night, long after the soreness had set in and his phone had been turned face-down to avoid news notifications, he got a text message.
Ghost: You alright?
Soap stared at it for a long time.
Soap: Yeah.
Soap: Bit wrecked. But alright.
A pause. Then:
Ghost: You played your heart out. Don’t let the loss stick to your ribs.
Soap exhaled, low and steady.
Soap: That some old army wisdom?
Ghost: Something like that.
Soap: Thanks for coming today. It is good PR.
Ghost: I wasn’t there for PR.
There was another pause. Longer this time.
Soap almost said something. Almost texted something he wasn’t ready to name.
Instead, he typed:
Soap: Movie night soon?
Ghost: Your turn to pick. No explosions this time.
Soap grinned to himself.
Soap: Romcom it is.
Ghost: I will walk out.
Soap: You’ll love it.
Soap: You’re a secret softie, I can tell.
Ghost didn’t respond right away.
But a minute later:
Ghost: There is nothing wrong with the occasional romcom.
Soap couldn’t help but smile at the screen.
~*~
Soap had stopped trying to explain it to himself.
How Ghost had started showing up more often – not just when Gaz nudged him, not just when they needed new photos for the press.
He came over on rest days. Sat on Soap’s floor with a beer while they watched whatever was on. Let Soap talk shit about sports documentaries or yell at cooking shows. Sometimes he brought snacks. Sometimes he said nothing at all.
It wasn’t about optics anymore.
At least… not all of it.
They were halfway through some British crime drama Ghost had chosen (“One of the few that gets surveillance right,” he claimed), and Soap was draped sideways across the couch in the oversized hoodie he wore post-training.
Ghost sat on the floor in front of him, back leaned against the couch, mask still on but his posture loose.
“Can I ask something?” Ghost asked suddenly, breaking the rhythm of a too-serious detective monologue on-screen.
Soap grunted. “Go ahead.”
Ghost turned slightly, just enough to angle his head up.
“Why ‘Soap’?”
Soap blinked. “What?”
“Your nickname. Everyone calls you that – even Gaz. There’s got to be a story.”
Soap grinned, amused. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Ghost huffed quietly, not quite a laugh.
“Well,” Soap said, sitting up a little. “It started back when I was sixteen. First club I played for had this older winger – used to complain all the time that I never shut up. Said I was ‘slippery as fuck and loud as hell, like soap in a bathtub.’”
Ghost’s head tilted.
Soap shrugged. “Guess it stuck. Even when I started playin’ professionally. No one wants to say ‘MacTavish’ on the pitch, and ‘Johnny’ sounds too much like a fan chant. So – ‘Soap’ it became.”
He paused. “You disappointed?”
“Not really,” Ghost said. “Fits you.”
Soap grinned again. “How so?”
“You’re hard to hold onto, and louder than necessary.”
Soap chuckled. “You forgot charming and universally loved.”
Ghost glanced over his shoulder, and though Soap couldn’t see his expression, he felt the pause before Ghost replied.
“Don’t push it.”
Soap’s smile didn’t fade.
Neither of them moved to start the show again.
Later that night, Soap laid in bed, phone still in hand.
Soap: Still think I’m slippery and loud?
There was a pause.
Then Ghost replied:
Ghost: You’re alright, Johnny.
Soap smiled at the ceiling.
~*~
It continued with Ghost taking off the mask.
Not in public. Not on camera. Just… at Soap’s flat. Quietly. No drama.
Soap had come back from training, half soaked from a surprise downpour, grumbling about his boots and the state of the pitch, towel in hand as he kicked the door shut.
Ghost was already there, sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, a Pepsi in one hand and the remote in the other.
When Soap looked up, the mask was gone.
And Ghost looked up at him like it was nothing.
Like it wasn’t the first time Soap had seen his actual face.
He was handsome. Painfully so. Strong lines. A sharp jaw. Scars, yes – but they only made him more striking. Eyes serious, mouth soft despite the grim line it held by default.
Soap stopped short in the doorway.
Ghost blinked. “You alright?”
Soap nodded. “Yeah. Just – didn’t know you were gonna…”
He gestured vaguely, towel still dripping rain onto the floor.
Ghost shrugged. “Figured if I’m gonna eat your snacks and watch your telly every other night, might as well be comfortable.”
Soap swallowed. “Right. Yeah.”
He turned away too quickly. Missed the look Ghost gave him.
Soap took longer than usual to change out of his wet clothes, mostly because he had to sit on the edge of the bed and breathe for a minute before he could trust his face not to show anything it shouldn’t.
They didn’t talk about the tension between them. Not when Ghost stayed for dinner and helped chop vegetables without taking off his gloves. Not when Soap handed him a clean t-shirt to change into after he spilled soy sauce on his hoodie. Not even when they brushed hands reaching for the same drink in the fridge, and neither of them commented on it.
It was like they’d agreed – wordlessly – to keep walking the line without naming it.
Because once it had a name, it would be real.
And real meant risk.
Still, Soap found himself watching Ghost a little differently now.
How he sat – spine straight, always facing the exit but never tense.
How his voice dipped softer when they were alone.
How his face showed exactly what he was thinking, now that he had started to take off the mask more often.
Ghost had a laugh Soap had only heard once, but it was good. Rare. Rough around the edges.
Soap wanted to hear it again.
He told himself it was just friendship. Just chemistry. Just comfort in an otherwise ridiculous setup.
But every time Ghost left – hood pulled up, mask back on, boots silent – Soap’s flat felt too quiet.
And every time his phone buzzed, his chest sparked just a little too bright.
~*~
A few days later, Soap’s coach pulled him aside after practice.
“Club’s doing a sponsor event this weekend,” Coach said. “All first-team players are expected to attend. Bring your plus-one.”
Soap blinked. “Sorry, my what?”
Coach grinned. “Your boyfriend. I’m sure the sponsors will love him.”
Soap rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s not really a-”
Coach raised a brow.
Soap sighed. “Right. Yeah. I'll bring him.”
The event was held at a sleek downtown venue – glass walls, overpriced catering, ambient lighting that tried too hard to be modern.
Soap wore a dark grey suit. One he hated. He tugged at the collar and tried not to sweat through the linen shirt.
Ghost arrived exactly two minutes early, as if he had military precision even for this. Black suit, simple black tie, and the ever-present black medical mask. The only thing keeping him from looking like a mob enforcer was the softness around his eyes.
“Can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” Soap murmured as they checked in together.
“Gaz said I’d regret it if I bailed,” Ghost muttered.
“Don’t worry,” Soap said with a grin. “I’ll make it so awkward for you, you’ll never agree to do it again.”
“You’re halfway there just breathing near me.”
Soap bumped his arm, and Ghost bumped him right back.
The venue was already buzzing when they entered. Soap was quickly pulled into a whirl of shaking hands, chatting with sponsors, and laughing at jokes he didn’t really get. Ghost stayed close, hovering just behind his right shoulder, nodding politely when introduced but not saying much.
When Soap introduced him to some teammates, Ghost surprised him by actually shaking their hands. Offered short, clipped replies – still impersonal, but present. Soap caught more than one of the boys giving him a look. One of those so that’s the guy? looks.
It was bizarre. But not… unpleasant.
They were halfway through the night when one of the event photographers asked if they’d pose together for the club’s socials.
“Just a few shots,” she said. “Close together, if you can.”
Soap glanced at Ghost.
Ghost gave the barest nod.
So they stood shoulder to shoulder, Soap’s arm brushing Ghost’s. They did the standard smiles, the hands in pockets, the slightly-too-posed shoulder touch.
And then – without really thinking, without checking – Soap leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Ghost’s cheek.
The camera clicked.
Ghost didn’t move.
For a second, Soap panicked. Had he overstepped? Had he just made things weird?
But then Ghost leaned ever so slightly closer, hand brushing Soap’s back with careful familiarity. Just enough for the photo. Just enough to sell it.
The photographer beamed. “Perfect.”
Soap stepped back and exhaled, heart doing something fast and stupid in his chest.
Later, while the two of them stood near the drinks table pretending to look interested in sparkling water, Ghost muttered without looking at him:
“You owe me for that.”
Soap smirked, but didn’t look back.
“Add it to the tab.”
By the time the event wound down, Soap’s teammates were all making jokes about how Ghost had managed to “actually survive” the night and how “you two are weirdly good together.”
Soap waved them off, but his chest was warm.
Outside, in the quiet of the car park, Soap finally looked over at Ghost.
“You alright?”
Ghost nodded. “Not the worst op I’ve been on.”
Soap laughed. “You’re softening.”
Ghost didn’t reply, but when they walked to the car, he let their shoulders brush the whole way there.
Soap didn’t know what was happening between them.
But he knew he didn’t want it to stop.
~*~
Simon “Ghost” Riley had never been one for complications. His life was a series of operations, orders, missions – clear lines, sharp edges, and the constant certainty of the next objective.
This... wasn’t any of that.
At first, when Gaz asked him to play boyfriend to John “Soap” MacTavish, Ghost said no. Twice. Three times, actually.
He didn’t do public appearances. He didn’t do press photos. He didn’t do fake relationships.
“You owe me,” Gaz had said.
And he did.
Saved his life, once. Pulled him out of a collapsed structure with a shattered leg and a full-blown insurgent sweep on their heels. Ghost never forgot debts like that.
Didn’t mean he liked the interest rate.
But Ghost relented. It was just a few weeks, after all. A job to get done.
Simple.
Except it wasn’t.
At first, Ghost kept his distance. Just enough interaction to sell it: the coffee dates, the stiff arm brushes, the vague nods when reporters or teammates looked their way. He knew how to play a role. Had done it his entire career.
What he hadn’t counted on was Soap.
Not the Soap from the press – the loud, charming showman who could charm a camera blind.
No. The real one.
The Soap who laughed at his own jokes even when no one else was around. Who hated mushrooms but ordered them on pizza to pick them off individually, “for the experience.” Who looked good in a suit but better in sweats, barefoot in his flat, hair damp from the shower, skin pink and soft from the heat.
The Soap who talked to Ghost like he wasn’t wearing a mask at all.
And every time Soap smiled at him – really smiled, without hesitation – Ghost felt the line blur.
Every shared silence became something heavy with meaning.
Every brush of hands made his heart beat a little faster.
Ghost didn’t want to admit it. He told himself it was just comfort. Just the familiarity of someone who didn’t expect him to be perfect.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
Soap wasn’t just a mission. He was becoming something more.
He took the mask off in Soap’s flat without really meaning to. It just happened. Like he forgot it was part of the uniform.
And when Soap stared at him – really looked – Ghost’s heart had kicked once in his chest like a startled animal.
But Soap didn’t say anything cruel or mocking or even surprised.
He just said: “Right. Yeah.”
Like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.
Ghost had to sit with that one for a while.
Now, Ghost found himself staring at the photo from the event. The one where Soap kissed his cheek, barely missing the edge of his mask.
He’d let it happen.
Worse – he hadn’t moved.
Even now, days later, the memory of it pulled at him. Not because it was embarrassing. But because it had felt… normal. Comfortable. Like something you’d do if you actually gave a shit about the man beside you.
Ghost didn’t let people that close. Not ever. Not unless they were bleeding and needed covering fire. Not unless they were family – and even then, barely.
But Soap…
Soap had made himself at home.
He had done it quietly. Without pushing. Without expectation.
Just showing up, night after night, with too many snacks and that crooked grin. Picking movies Ghost didn’t know but ended up liking. Asking questions Ghost didn’t mind answering. Falling asleep on the couch, head tilted back, mouth open, snoring faintly.
Ghost found himself waiting for the next time he’d see him.
Thinking about him.
And it scared the shit out of him.
He deleted the photo. Only to open his gallery and look at it again five minutes later in the recently deleted folder.
Ghost cursed under his breath, sat back on his bed, and stared up at the ceiling like it might give him the answers.
It didn’t.
But his phone buzzed.
A message from Soap.
Soap: You survive the PR nightmare or you still recovering?
Ghost stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
He could ignore it. He should.
Instead, he typed:
Ghost: Wasn’t that bad.
A beat later:
Ghost: You looked good in that suit.
There was a pause. A long one.
Then Soap replied:
Soap: Thought you didn’t do compliments.
Ghost: Only when I mean them.
The typing bubble blinked. Vanished. Blinked again.
Then:
Soap: Guess I’ll take it then.
Ghost turned off the screen before he could read too much into it.
But his heart kept beating like it meant something anyway.
There was a voice in his head, deep and worn like old combat boots, that told him to cut it off. To end it. To remind Soap – remind himself – that this wasn’t real.
That it couldn’t be real.
But the other voice, the quieter one – the one he hadn’t listened to in years – kept whispering:
What if it is?
What if you let it be?
~*~
It was supposed to be just another quiet night.
Takeaway containers on the table. A shit film playing in the background. Ghost sitting on the edge of the sofa, shoulder barely brushing Soap’s.
But something shifted.
Soap didn’t know if it was the way Ghost had laughed – actually laughed – when Soap did that impression of their coach yelling about “mental toughness.” Or the way Ghost, hoodie sleeves pushed up, had reached for Soap’s drink like it was already his.
Or maybe it was just how easy it had all become.
How Ghost didn’t feel like a guest anymore. How he knew where the glasses were. How he didn’t even look at Soap when he kicked off his boots and flopped down like he’d done it a hundred times before.
That was what did it.
That comfort.
The fact that Soap wanted it to stay.
Later, when Ghost was gone and the flat felt too still again, Soap stood in the kitchen with a hand curled around his mug and a sinking feeling in his gut.
It hit him all at once.
He was falling for Ghost.
Not the public version of him – the mask, the silent figure at his side, the boyfriend who posed for soft-lit pictures from a distance.
No. He was falling for the man who leaned against his kitchen counter with tired eyes and dry humour. The one who opened up in inches, like pulling the string on something ancient and tangled.
He was falling for the man who took his mask off without being asked.
Who stayed for movie nights long after Gaz said the mission was done.
Who looked at him like Soap was more than just a rugby player trying to fix a PR mess.
Soap clutched the side of the counter, blinked hard.
Fuck.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this. That this was business. Strategy. Faking it to shut the media up and take the pressure off.
But somewhere between fake coffee dates and real movie nights, he’d lost the plot.
Ghost had gotten under his skin.
And maybe worse – into his heart.
He didn’t say anything about it, of course. Not to Ghost. Not to Gaz. Not even to himself in any real way.
But the next morning, when his phone buzzed with a casual:
Ghost: Still alive after your training run?
Soap smiled like an idiot before he even replied.
Soap: Barely.
Soap: You offering CPR?
There was a pause.
Then:
Ghost: Only if you pass out mid-sentence.
Soap stared at the screen too long.
Then:
Soap: Can’t wait.
The truth sat heavy in his chest. Hot and awkward and fragile.
He was falling.
And he didn’t know what scared him more –
That it felt real.
Or that it might not be real at all.
~*~
It was a nothing sort of evening. The kind that should’ve passed without a second thought.
Rain on the windows. A game muted on the telly. Ghost at the stove with the sleeves of his hoodie bunched at the elbows, stirring something with a care Soap hadn’t expected from a man who could break bones without blinking.
Soap sat on the kitchen counter, half-watching, half-listening, and fully fucked.
He’d spent the last three nights wrestling with the weight in his chest. The ache that had turned into a low throb every time Ghost showed up like he belonged there. Like he always had.
And tonight… tonight it almost slipped out.
It nearly fell between a joke and a bite of curry. Ghost had just said something dry, something sharp-edged and funny in that quiet, grim way of his, and Soap had laughed, heart aching with it.
He looked at Ghost – really looked.
The scar beneath his left eye. The faint bruising along the bridge of his nose from some training mishap, already healing. The slope of his mouth, relaxed for once.
He looked, and the words sat right there in his throat.
I think I’m falling for you.
Not dramatic. Not some huge confession. Just the truth, said plainly.
But then Ghost glanced up. Caught him staring.
And Soap panicked.
He coughed, shoved another bite of rice into his mouth, and said something incredibly stupid about the rugby match coming up.
Ghost didn’t notice.
Or if he did, he didn’t say anything.
Two days later, Ghost was gone.
No warning. Just a short message from Gaz:
Gaz: Ghost’s been called in early. Last-minute op abroad. Might be radio silent a while.
Soap stared at it like it wasn’t in English.
He read it again. Then a third time.
No message from Ghost himself.
Soap didn’t think much of it at first.
Until a few days became five.
Then six.
Then nearly a full week.
No texts. No updates.
Soap checked his phone more times than he wanted to admit. Slept with it under his pillow like he was fifteen again. Told himself it was nothing. That Ghost was busy. That military work meant radio silence sometimes.
But it hurt.
Worse than he thought it would.
Because Ghost had carved out a space in his life without warning. Slowly, steadily, with every text and every late-night hang, he’d become part of Soap’s daily rhythm. His safe place when the press got too loud. His anchor when the world spun too fast.
And now, without warning, that anchor was gone.
Soap tried to distract himself – training, film reviews, practice matches, PR duties.
But it wasn’t the same.
He missed Ghost.
And not in the “mate I hang out with sometimes” way. Not even in the “fake boyfriend” way.
He missed the Ghost who left his hoodies draped over Soap’s kitchen chair. The one who leaned into his space a little more each time they saw one another. The one who started speaking in full sentences and only aimed that ghost of a smile at him.
He missed the man. Plain and simple.
And it hurt.
That night, Soap sat in bed, phone in hand, thumbs hovering.
He didn’t text. Didn’t want to distract Ghost if he was mid op.
But in the Notes app, he typed:
You alright?
Then:
I miss you.
Then deleted both.
Started again.
Hope you’re safe.
Deleted that too.
In the end, he locked the screen and rolled onto his side, heart leaden and aching.
And for the first time in a long time, he let himself feel it.
All of it.
Because this wasn’t just pretend anymore.
Not for him.
Not even a little.
~*~
It had been twelve days.
Twelve long, silent, empty days.
When Soap opened his front door on morning of the thirteenth day after receiving that message from Gaz and found Ghost standing there, alive and whole and no mask in sight – his stomach twisted.
The relief was immediate. Overwhelming. He had to fight not to drag the man into a hug on the spot.
But underneath it… there was something else.
Anger? No. Not quite.
Hurt.
Because Soap had spent days spiralling, and Ghost hadn’t sent a single message. Not even a still breathing.
“You look like hell,” Ghost muttered, stepping inside and dropping his duffle by the door.
Soap barked a laugh. “Cheers, mate. That’s how you greet me after vanishing?”
Ghost didn’t answer right away. Just scanned him, taking in the shadows under Soap’s eyes, the way he held himself like something was off. Because it was. He could feel it.
“I wasn’t gone that long,” Ghost finally said.
Soap’s jaw clenched. “Twelve days. Without a word.”
“I couldn’t contact anyone. You know how ops work.”
“Still would’ve been nice to hear you were alive, Ghost.”
The silence that followed crackled between them.
Soap turned away first. Walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass just for something to do with his hands. He hated how much his voice shook when he said it.
“I get it now. This whole thing – it’s a distraction for you. A laugh. Something to pass the time between missions. But maybe it’s not fair to keep asking you to be in this when your actual job gets you pulled out for weeks without warning.”
Ghost leaned against the kitchen doorframe, brows drawn.
“What are you on about?”
Soap shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “Maybe we should call it quits. Say it ran its course. It helped me when I needed it. And you’ve done more than enough.”
There was a pause.
A long, tense, stunned pause.
“You think I’m doing this out of obligation?”
Soap looked up, trying to smile but failing. “Aren’t you?”
Ghost stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until the distance between them felt dangerously thin.
“I said yes to this because Gaz asked. Stayed because of you.”
Soap blinked.
Ghost’s voice dropped lower. Almost too quiet. “I didn’t text you because I couldn’t. But I thought about it every night. Wondering if you were alright. If you were sleeping. If you’d gotten used to me not being around.”
Soap swallowed. “Well… I didn’t.”
“I noticed.”
Soap let out a bitter laugh. “Well, you’re back now. And we’re good, yeah? We’ll post a few more photos. Maybe say we broke up when you get deployed again.”
Ghost stared at him for a long time.
Then quietly, almost carefully, he said: “If that’s what you really want.”
It wasn’t.
God, it wasn’t.
But Soap had already opened the door, and he didn’t know how to close it again.
So he nodded.
Ghost gave the faintest shake of his head. Like he didn’t believe it for a second – but wasn’t going to argue.
He grabbed his duffle, muttered, “Get some sleep, Johnny,” and walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Soap stood alone in the kitchen, the glass still in his hand, heart racing like he’d just lost something he never really had the right to claim in the first place.
~*~
Ghost wasn’t used to being misread.
He’d built his life around silence and discipline, trained himself to read a room, predict the next move, stay two steps ahead. On the field, that saved lives. Off the field, it kept people from getting close.
But none of that had helped him when Soap looked him in the eye and offered to end it.
Like it meant nothing.
Ghost had stared at him – tired and a little angry, yes – and hadn’t known what to say in return.
He still didn’t.
It was only once he got back to his own flat, stripped out of his gear since he had gone straight to Soap’s after landing back on British soil, and let the adrenaline crash hit him like a wave, that it landed:
Soap had no idea how far in Ghost already was.
Had no clue how often Ghost thought about him when he was out on missions. How Ghost had caught himself thinking of Soap’s flat as safe, how he’d gone to sleep on more than one occasion during his time abroad picturing those nights on the couch, quiet and close, pretending like it was nothing.
Pretending.
That word burned now.
Because for Ghost, it had stopped being pretend weeks ago.
He sat on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees, heart beating too fast for someone who just got back from a successful op.
It was easier when this was just a favour.
Easier when Soap was a name on Gaz’s lips. A rugby bloke with a good heart and a bad media storm. Someone to shield for a bit before walking away untouched.
But then there were late nights and inside jokes. Movie nights and tea mugs passed back and forth without words. Ghost letting his mask slide down just a little. And Soap – Johnny – had taken every piece of that trust in stride, never pushing, never flinching.
Until tonight.
Until Johnny, trying too hard to sound unaffected, offered to end it like it was an act they could just walk away from.
Ghost leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
What the hell had he done wrong?
Maybe he should’ve left a note, sent something through Gaz. But Soap should have known. Should have understood what silence meant in Ghost’s world.
It wasn’t rejection. It was survival.
He rubbed at his face, suddenly hating the feel of his mask, even though he wasn’t wearing it. The quiet felt too heavy, like it was pressing in around him.
It would be easier to walk away now. Cut it off, keep the memory clean. Let Soap think it didn’t matter.
But it did.
More than he’d ever planned.
Now he wasn’t sure if he’d just let the best thing in years slip through his fingers because neither of them knew how to call the bluff.
~*~
The stadium was loud in a way Ghost still wasn’t used to.
Not chaotic – controlled, rhythmic. Cheers and chants, the pounding of feet on bleachers, the screech of whistles. Ghost only started following rugby since he met Soap, but he knew what momentum felt like, knew the tension that hung in the air before a break, a score, a mistake.
He sat with Gaz a few rows up from the pitch, in the family box, wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a mask that covered half his face. Standard for him. Still, he felt exposed.
Maybe because his chest was wide open in a way he hadn’t allowed in years.
“You two have a fight or something?” Gaz asked beside him, voice low.
Ghost didn’t answer at first.
The truth was: not really. No raised voices, no accusations, no betrayal.
Just the absence of something he hadn’t been brave enough to offer yet. And Johnny had mistaken it for disinterest.
“I was gone too long,” Ghost finally muttered. “Johnny thinks it’s not fair to keep asking me to be available as his boyfriend if my job gets me pulled out for weeks without warning.”
Gaz hummed. “And let me guess – he offered to call it quits and you didn’t correct him?”
Ghost didn’t respond.
“Fucking hell, mate,” Gaz sighed. “You can survive a firefight in a concrete tunnel but not one conversation with a bloke who clearly likes you.”
Ghost didn’t rise to the bait. His eyes were fixed on the pitch.
Soap was there. Moving like something electric. Quick, focused, relentless. Ghost had seen him play before, plenty of times by now, but still the sight of him knocked something loose in his chest.
He was brilliant.
Every time Soap got the ball, the crowd surged. When he broke past a defender and scored, the stadium erupted.
Ghost found himself smiling. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
Because when Johnny turned to look at the stands, searching for something, someone – Ghost saw it.
That flicker of ache.
Even as the crowd roared for him, Johnny didn’t look happy. Not really.
And Ghost hated that he’d put that look there.
“He’s good,” he murmured.
Gaz gave him a sidelong glance. “He’s more than good. He’s a fucking heartline for that team.”
Ghost nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. And I almost made him think he didn’t matter.”
Gaz didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then: “So what are you gonna do about it?”
Ghost stared down at the field, where Soap was jogging back to his position, jaw clenched, sweat glistening on his neck.
“I’m gonna fix it,” Ghost said.
Not a question. A statement. A vow.
Gaz just nodded. “’Bout time.”
~*~
The match ended in a draw – technically not a loss, but it felt like one.
Soap didn’t care.
Because somewhere in the middle of the second half, just after a tackle that nearly winded him, he looked up toward the stands and saw him.
Baseball cap. Black mask. Shoulders like a statue. Sitting next to Gaz, arms crossed, unmoving except for the slow tilt of his head as he tracked Soap’s every movement.
Ghost.
Soap’s pulse had tripped then, hard enough to make him fumble the ball on the next pass.
He recovered quickly – muscle memory and stubborn pride – but the rest of the match was a blur.
Ghost was here.
After two weeks of silence. After Soap’s stupid, prideful offer to end the whole thing. After Ghost had stood there and hadn’t protested when Soap offered it call it quits.
And now he was just... sitting in the stands like it was normal.
Like nothing had been broken between them.
The post-match routine dragged.
Press conference. Debrief with the coaches. Team cooldowns and endless pats on the back. Soap tried to keep his answers sharp, his posture easy. But his brain was miles away.
He was half out of his kit and still damp from the shower when Gaz found him leaning against the lockers.
“He’s outside,” Gaz said quietly, nodding toward the players’ exit. “Didn’t want to come in. Said it was your call.”
Soap stared at him, heartbeat kicking hard again.
He didn’t ask who he was.
He already knew.
It was nearly dark when Soap stepped outside.
The parking lot was mostly empty, only a few staff members still loading gear. Ghost stood near the back edge, shadowed beneath one of the tall floodlights, hands in his jacket pockets, mask still on.
Soap stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms like armour.
“You were gone for nearly two weeks,” he said, voice sharper than he meant. “No word. Nothing.”
Ghost didn’t flinch. “Couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
Silence.
Soap let out a breath, shoulders tight. “I thought – hell, I don’t know what I thought. You agreed to help, then you disappeared. You didn’t even look surprised when I said we could call it off.”
“I was,” Ghost said. Quiet. Almost a whisper. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”
Soap stared. “You didn’t know how to say it?”
Ghost finally looked up, eyes catching the floodlight. “I don’t... do this. Feelings. Talking. I’ve spent years keeping things locked down. Then you – you’re just there. With your bad jokes and your coffee orders and your daft smile. You made it too easy.”
Soap felt his heart stutter.
“I didn’t think it was real for you,” Ghost admitted, voice rough. “And when you offered to walk, I figured... maybe you’d already moved on.”
“Moved on?” Soap blinked. “Christ, Ghost. I thought you were done. I thought I made it weird, or I crossed a line-”
“You didn’t,” Ghost interrupted. “You never did.”
Silence stretched between them again.
Then Soap took a step closer. “So what now?”
Ghost looked at him, eyes tired but open in a way they hadn’t been before.
“That depends,” he said. “You still want to call it off?”
Soap’s breath hitched. He shook his head.
“No. I don’t.”
Another step. They were close now. Almost too close.
“I missed you,” Soap said, barely a whisper. “And it scared the hell out of me.”
Ghost’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. “Me too.”
Soap let out a shaky breath. “So… we try again?”
Ghost reached up slowly, brushed his fingers against Soap’s wrist. A small touch. But steady.
“Yeah,” he said. “We try again.”
~*~
It started simple.
A text from Ghost before he left again.
Ghost: Flying out tomorrow. Should be 5 days, tops.
Ghost: Will message if I can.
Soap stared at the screen longer than he needs to. He smiled.
Because this time, Ghost didn’t vanish.
This time, he said goodbye.
The first time Ghost returned, Soap’s already got dinner on the stove. Nothing fancy – pasta, garlic bread, a bottle of wine Gaz mockingly called date night red.
Ghost walked in wearing his civvies, dark hoodie and jeans, the tension of the flight still clinging to his shoulders. But when Soap greeted him at the door, Ghost didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, pressed his forehead briefly to Soap’s.
A touch he’d never allowed before.
Soap sank into it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“You look knackered.”
Ghost hummed. “You’re cooking. That’s new.”
“Watch it, or I’ll poison your garlic bread.”
“Worth it.”
They fell into something that they didn’t need to name.
It’s not quite domestic bliss – not when Ghost iss gone every few weeks, and Soap’s own schedule is its own brutal kind of grind. But there’s a rhythm to it now.
Mornings where Soap wakes up to find Ghost on his sofa, freshly back from a mission, already halfway through a pot of coffee.
Evenings where Ghost sits at the edge of the stands during practice, hood up, mask on, hands tucked in his coat, and Soap feels steadier just knowing he’s there.
Private nights with movies and takeout. Shared showers after long days. The occasional press appearance where Soap slips his hand into Ghost’s just before they step into a room, and Ghost lets him, every single time.
There’s still distance. Ghost still doesn’t like being seen too much. Soap doesn’t push.
But sometimes, Ghost will lean in close and kiss Soap slow and soft, just to remind him: I’m here. I’m trying.
And Soap believes him.
“Did you ever think we’d end up here?” Soap asks one night.
They’re sprawled on the couch, a game muted in the background. Ghost is in one of his faded team jerseys, hair damp from a shower. His bare feet are tucked under Soap’s thigh.
Ghost snorts. “Didn’t think we’d last more than a week.”
Soap grins. “Same.”
Ghost glances at him. “Glad we were both wrong.”
Soap nudges his knee. “Still think rugby’s boring?”
Ghost pretends to consider. “It’s grown on me.”
Soap rolls his eyes, but his chest feels warm.
Because this? This is real.
No cameras. No strategy. Just the quiet certainty of being wanted back.
~*~
Weeks pass. Matches are played. Missions come and go.
But Ghost keeps texting.
Soap keeps cooking.
And somewhere in between the blur of days, the staged beginnings fade into real smiles, real touches, real love – unspoken, but felt in everything.
Because it stopped being fake a long time ago.
Now it’s just them.
And they’re doing this – for real this time.