Steam drifted out as John opened the bathroom door, using his towel to dry the last droplets from his beard.

The flat was quiet—no kettle boiling and no traffic buzzing by the windows—just that moment of blue-grey in London that weren't awake yet. He thought he'd find Charlie still wrapped in the sheet as she usually was at dawn, but the bed was empty. The sheets already losing the warmth where she should have been.

For a moment, silence was known and the reality set it. She was awake because he was leaving, and neither could feign sleep through the heaviness of farewell.

He breathed out through his nose, clamping his lips together. Scrunched his nose and bit the inside of his cheek.

He knew this too well.

The thought of leaving behind his loved one like he used too with Cam, when she was a child, and now, on Charlie.

Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes, trying to push away the painful memories that always seemed to creep in at moments like these.

He had a job to do, people who were depending on him.

He couldn't afford distractions, not when lives hung in the balance.

John moved on muscle memory: olive T-shirt over broad shoulders, tactical trousers, thick socks, combat boots laced tight. Grabbing his field jacket, every piece of the attire slid on like old armor, yet today it felt heavier.

From the wardrobe's top shelf he pulled the battered kit bag, the one that smelled of cordite, gun oil, and far too many years away from home. Into it went the folded beret, the orders packet, and tucked inside a spare sock was the necklace box he refused to leave behind. A pendant he wanted to give to her on her birthday, as he had decided to take it with him since this cost a fortune. He decided to take it with him instead of leaving it behind.

These moments before duty called were what John would miss most.

The time he spent with Charlie, her fingertips tracing idle patterns on his arm and bearded face, caressing since he loved the feel of her small and soft hand touching his. Her lips grazing his shoulder as she leaned against him, content to share the silence.

Part of him wanted to find and wrap himself around her for a few longer minutes. But he knew once his arms were around her, leaving would be impossible. So he slung the weight across his back and padded down the corridor. The faint glow in the open-plan kitchen guided him: under-counter lights, warm and golden, were already on. And there she was.

She didn't turn, but he knew she heard his approach by the way she stood by the stove in one of his old tees. Hair in a loose braid down her back. Her cheeks were pink from the oven's heat.

On the table waited two plates, eggs still steaming, thick-cut toast buttered to the edges, few bacon strips, and a small bowl of freshly apple slices. Beside that sat a thermos and a paper lunch sack neatly folded, John written across it in her looping script.

She turned as he entered, eyes shining though her smile stayed soft.

"Morning," she whispered as though the flat might shatter if they spoke too loud.

"Morning, love." His voice was rough from more than sleep. He set the kit bag down near outside the kitchen and crossed to her.

For a moment, they shared the same breath, their foreheads touching. A silent message of 'I'm still here' was exchanged between them. She placed a mug of coffee she had prepared for him into his hands.

"I packed the hand pies—steak and ale, like you like. They'll stay warm till you board."

He nodded, swallowing the tightness in his throat. "You spoil me."

She let out a small laugh. "Someone has to."

He bent down to plant a kiss on her temple, encircling her waist with one arm while holding his mug in the other. He then kissed the crown of her head, committing to memory the lingering scent of the shampoo she used the night before—vanilla and coconut.

She looked up to him and their lips met in a kiss that spoke of longing and a promise.

"I love you," Charlie whispered in between his lips.

"Love you too," he murmured in a deep voice, giving her a playful squeeze on the backside, which made her giggle as they headed to the dining table and sat down.

They ate in silence, fork against plate was the only sound. He ate because she'd cooked and she watched because she needed to memorize him like this—simple, domestic, alive. Halfway through the toast he noticed the tremor in her fingers. John reached across, covering her hand with his larger one.

"I'll be back," he said quietly.

Charlie slowly chewed and swallowed.

"I know," she answered, blinking back the sting in her eyes. "Still feels far."

John brought her hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles. It lingered—longer than it should've like he was trying to remember the exact shape of her fingers, the feel of her skin. Charlie smiled gently, then mirrored him, lifting his large hand and kissing it too, before resting it back between both of hers like she wasn't ready to let him go.

Their silence was weightless and heavy all at once. It said more than any goodbye ever could.

Her lips quivered, she shook her head and exhaled.

"I'm sorry... I..."

"Don't be sorry, love," he said gently. "Never hide from me."

She nodded and they finished their breakfast in that silence.

The warm scent of toast, eggs, and bacon and coffee's aroma in here. Time ticked steadily toward his departure.

Afterward, John stood, gathering their empty plates without asking and she watched him move to the kitchen. He rinsed them under the tap and set them in the sink to wash later, like he wanted for one last moment before the day pulled him away from her. John turned around and he saw Charlie moving away from the table and her arms wrapped around him. His hands covered her cheeks as she lifted her gaze to his eyes, he dipped his head and kissed her.

She melted into him, her body fitting perfectly against his.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers. Holding her close as he tried to commit every detail to memory. The softness of her hair against his cheek, the floral scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her body pressed against his. He knew the coming months would be long and lonely without her, but he also knew that she would be here waiting when he returned.

"Call me when you can," Charlie said in almost in whisper.

"I will," he promised, finally leaning back just far enough to look into her eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes that saw straight through to his soul.

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the single tear that had escaped despite her efforts to hold them back.

"But you can video call me, you know. I'd much rather see your beautiful smile and pretty eyes than not seeing you," he joked, prompting a gentle laugh from her.

Charlie patted and caressed his chest and stepped back, her shirt falling past her thighs as she stretched.

"I'm gonna hop in the shower," she said softly before passing him.

"Alright," he murmured, eyes following her until she disappeared down the hall into the bathroom.

The water started a minute later after the door was shut, he could hear the gentle rush echoing faintly in the background. John leaned his weight against the kitchen counter, thumbs rubbing the bridge of his brow.

A sudden knock at the door pulled him from the haze. Brows furrowed, he moved to answer it, bootsteps quiet on the hardwood.

He opened the door to find Simon standing there in uniform, his dark tactical gear already strapped on and fitting like a second skin.

Gabby stood beside him, one hip popped as she balanced a sleeping Ivory on her shoulder, bundled in a soft pink blanket and tucked into the crook of her neck. She was in her casual outing—a sweatpants with a long dark hoodie that stopped over below her waist and her hair tied in messy bun.

"Wasn't expectin' a doorstep send-off," was his response.

Gabby grinned, though her eyes were tired. "Didn't come to see you off. Just here for Charlie after you drop your truck and I'll take her back to your place, if you like."

Simon rolled his eyes. "She dragged me, mate."

"Aw, hush," Gabby teased before walking past John like she owned the place. "I was up before you anyways since Ivory woke us up. Where's Charlie?"

"In the shower," John said, stepping aside to let them in.

Gabby walked into the kitchen like she'd done it a hundred times before and glanced at the foil on the counter. "She made you takeout meals?"

He gave a soft huff. "Yeah."

"Awww," Gabby looked over her shoulder, the smile fading just slightly. "She's so sweet, she's gonna miss you."

He nodded solemnly, his eyes moved down to his boots before he exhaled through his nose. It was a sigh of almost sadness, and Gabby can sense it. She gave him a sad smile and came up to him before using her free hand and patted his shoulder.

"I got her, John," Gabby reminded him. "Besides, I can't leave Ivory unless you need me. I just hope Diane comes back soon since it's almsot the end of November. And I've to keep an eye on Levi as well. Just in case."

John looked at her and nodded slowly, giving her a quick smile. "I appreciate that."

Gabby looked down at the toddler in her arms and back to him. "Simon didn't want to go without me, but we figured it out."

Simon gave John a look—one soldier to another. One man leaving his family to another man doing the same.

"She stays, I go. Not how I like it, but we made it work. But, if you need her, she won't hesitate to drop what she's doing and Ivory will have to travel with her, if Diane is busy. Levi is almost clean so he won't give much trouble to Charlie and to my wife. He'll still be useful to us anyways."

John nodded again. "Right."

Gabby was about to speak again when the sound of soft footsteps padded into the hall.

She appeared from around the corner in a fresh white bathrobe, her hair damp and clinging to her shoulders in waves. The moment she spotted their unexpected guests, she froze, eyes widening slightly at the sight of Gabby and Simon in uniform—and Ivory asleep in her arms.

"Oh—hi," she said softly, her voice caught between surprise and a warm shyness. "I didn't know y'all were here."

Gabby grinned. "It's okay. We didn't mean to startle you. Figured I'd catch you both before the convoy left."

Her eyes flicked toward John for a heartbeat, then landed again on Gabby, her expression beginning to tremble, just slightly. "I was actually going to ask if... you'd take me back after I ride with him to base."

"I figured you'd ask," she said gently, shifting Ivory's weight on her shoulder. "I've done that drive. Too many times. Watching someone you love disappear into a convoy you can't follow... it does something to you."

Charlie blinked, already fighting the sting behind her eyes. She hugged herself and tightened her lips as she tried to look elsewhere since her face became almost red, trying to blink many times without allowing another more tear to come out. Gabby stepped forward and offered a kind look.

"My brother Hudson used to get drafted in the Marines all the time. I hated every damn send-off," Gabby offered. "I'd stand by in the mailbox until I couldn't see his truck anymore." She exhaled. "So yeah, I get it."

Charlie let out a breathy laugh—one that was more ache than humor—and nodded. "Thanks... I'll go get ready."

"We'll be waiting," Gabby told her, her voice warm.

Charlie gave a tiny smile, then turned and walked back down the hall. The door to the guest room clicked softly shut behind her.

John watched the hallway for a moment longer before moving his focus back to Gabby. His jaw was clenched, and his chest rose and fell with the controlled rhythm of someone forcing stillness against a tide that wanted to break.

"She tries not to show it. But I know what this does to her." He added.

"Oh?" Gabby said, "like what?"

John inhaled and exhaled quietly. "When she was young, she watched her father leave and that was the last time she seen him. It does that to her, I know it."

He simply looked away, jaw tightening. Then finally—quiet, rough, honest—he continued, "This'll be the last time she watches me go like this. Once Zakharov and Makarov are in the ground... I'm done. For her."

"You sure?" Simon raised a brow.

John looked at him, and gave him a curt nod. "Yes."

Gabby smiled faintly.

"She's worth it," she added.

He looked at her and nodded again. "Yeah. She is."

"But... if you're going to step down, who's going to take your position?" Gabby asked.

His brows furrowed at the question.

He hadn't given much thought to who would take over when he stepped down. There were a few good options within the team, but no clear successor yet.

"Not sure yet," he answered. "Might be time for some new blood, someone younger or a bit older than me can lead this ongoing task force."

Simon scoffed, a wry grin on his face. "What, you think one of us has got what it takes?"

John shrugged. "Maybe. I haven't made any decisions yet."

The door swung open as Charlie emerged from the guest bedroom, wearing a plain white t-shirt paired with jeans, an autumn-hued cardigan, and brown flat shoes. Her hair hung loose, still damp from her shower, and she chose to leave it down.

He smiled warmly at her.

"Ready, love?" he asked gently.

Charlie nodded, with a sad smile. "Ready."

He reached out his hand to her, and when she took it, he pulled her in, their fingers interlocking. Then, John picked up his bag from where he had set it down before leaving with her.

Gabby and Simon waited for them to depart before trailing behind.

***

The M-50's tyres whispered over country tarmac, hedgerows blurring in the morning dawn. Charlie sat sideways in the passenger seat so she could watch him instead of the road—as though carving every profile-line of his face into memory might slow the minutes they had left.

His eyes was covered with his pitch black aviator sunglasses.

When they arrived at the 141 base, after John went through the gate with his security clearance after using his MOD ID card and the gate rolled opened before he drove in before Gabby arrived as she would do the same to get inside.

Inside the compound he eased into a slot beside Cam's yellow jeep that would shepherd the team up to RAF Northolt. Gaz's grey hatch and Danny's tiny Mini were already parked nose-to-nose—evidence the others had pushed north hours earlier.

John killed the engine. For a heartbeat they both just listened to it ticking down. He watched as Gabby parked her truck and the doors opened and shut as they got out together, but Gabby grabbed a hold of her toddler and was carrying her along; He hopped out, boots crunching grit, then circled to her door and helped her down. Her fingers clutched his sleeve even after her feet touched gravel.

"Got ten before we roll," Simon called, striding over in full kit, sling cradling his rifle. "Soap and the others are waiting on us." He offered Charlie the faintest nod of respect, then tossed John an elasticated turret-cap. "Helmet's in the Rover."

"Right." John slung his kit bag from the truck bed, set it at Simon's boots. "Two minutes."

Simon moved off without argument.

Charlie drew a breath that wobbled. "So... this is it."

He cupped her face, thumbs brushing damp lashes. "Not it. Just a pause."

"But it always feels like it is," she whispered, chest tight with the childhood memory of watching a father march toward the flight line and never come back.

His jaw flexed. "Charlie."

Her brown gaze interlock his winter-blue.

"I will come home. And when I do, there will be no more deployments. I chose you and I will give up everything when I finish the job. I will win for you."

Tears spilled despite her bite-hard smile, and he lifted her hand and pressed her palm to his chest. She felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm and drew strength from its rhythm. She wanted to cling to him, to beg him not to go, but she knew it would only make things harder. So she swallowed back her tears and rose on her tiptoes to press one last lingering kiss to his lips.

"I will miss you," she said, her voice began to crack.

"Me too," he said solemnly before pressing his lips tight. "But Prague is an hour from you, hopefully I don't have to travel much since this will be my last."

A shaky laugh bubbled through her tears. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," he reassured, lips ghosting over hers.

He leaned down and kissed her. It was soft, desperate, nothing like the commanding heat of nights before—this one tasted of goodbye and hope knotted together.

From the Rover, Simon gave a sharp whistle—time.

Charlie fumbled in her cardigan, pulled out the foil-wrapped pasty and a folded note. "Eat on the way. And... read later."

He took it, throat bobbing. "Thank you, love."

Engines fired along the line. He guided her a step back, but she wouldn't release his hand.

"I love you, Johnathan," she almost said in tears. "Please come back!"

The words hit him harder than any citation. He kissed her knuckles, then prised himself away and jogged to the Land Rover. Simon climbed into the driver's side; John swung up on the turret hatch, one arm through the ring mount, lunch packet wedged by his tac-vest.

The convoy lurched forward.

As she watched the convoy leave, her lips quivered and she hugged herself before she let out a quiet sob. She wasn't aware of a hand touching her shoulder before it moved to rub over her back, Charlie turned and glanced at Gabby.

"He'll come back," Gabby said. "You have me and Diane."

Charlie nodded, gazing out at the distant view where the last brake lights faded into the dawn mist. Only then did Charlie allow herself to sob, resting her head on Gabby's shoulder as little Ivory watched in confusion.

Gabby closed her eyes, her lips trembling, for her heart ached just as much for Simon.

***

Far ahead, John unfolded the small note after he looked over his lunch bag she had packed for him.

My dearest John (yes, Captain, I'm using "dearest" because you're far enough away now that you can't blush and grumble at me).

I keep replaying the night I first saw you, well, profile-you, on my phone while I sat on the table with a large bowl of cereal. I'd downloaded SparkMatch because of Hailey bugging me (or maybe a challenge? I don't know), sworn I would never swipe on anyone with military uniform or such in their photos... and then there you were. Strong and that gruff dark beard and those eyes that says like you never want to play around nor anyone to bother you.

You were a little scary but you are handsome.

I remember hovering over the "like" button, thinking he's miles out of my league and definitely too old to be messed by a girl who still eats kids' cereal and work a day job to pay bills and finish school.

So I chickened out and thought of moving on but instead I tapped the heart, hoping you'd not notice.

But enter Soap—the matchmaker in Scotland—who "liked" my profile and sent the first message.

I still grin every time I remember three words: "Fancy meeting you". I smiled and I did freak out but it took me some courage to text "him" back before you.

I was surprised that you were curious about me and I bet you were wondering why a young woman like me, want to talk to someone older, like you? To be honest, I don't know either but I wasn't chasing men, unlike Hailey. I like you being low-key heroic. I like that you're honest and that you care about your team, your daughter, and you spoke fondly about your brothers. And I like you as you.

The first time we met in person, you were a bit nervous and I was too.

I couldn't stop staring at your beard—sorry, but this has to be said: if you ever shave it off, I will sulk for a decade and make you grow it back with miracle-gro (the young photos are lovely, but older, bearded you is the one who stole my heart).

These two-and-a-half months? They have been the best chapters my story's ever written.

You patched cracks I thought weren't meant to be fixed.

You spoke to the little girl of me who used to look at a window while her father left for war and her mother left to sacrifice her time or life to protect our home.

You let me crawl into the places of your own hurt—and somehow we both started breathing easier together.

If Soap hadn't played Cupid with his phone that day, if I'd never clicked that heart, I would still be wandering around not knowing the color of your laugh when you taste good coffee, or the way you say "love" when you're with me.

I would never have known what it feels like to be chosen by you.

I know people will say it's fast and I don't care.

The proof of us is as real as the ring now living on my finger.

I want the slow Sundays, the squeaky floorboards, the school runs, the midnight worries we knit together into prayers. I want to cheer when our first child graduates high school and college, to chase our second child round the house, to argue with you about décor (spoiler: you're wrong, the floral curtains are staying at your apartment). And when you march out tomorrow and the sky swallows convoy dust, I will tuck this truth against my heart: you are already coming home. Because my heart is your home; because every road you walk will one day circle back to the doorstep we build.

If Dad were still here, I think he'd shake your hand once, size you up, and then grin at you, which means approval because I know you will take care of me and I know you will protect me no matter what you'll do to fight back.

Mum will need longer. She worries a lot about me but she'll see what I see of you soon enough. (And if she pretends otherwise, I'll remind her that I have a Captain.)

Come back safe, John.

Come back bearded.

Wherever the war sends you, my yes will still be waiting.

All my love,

your girl, Charlotte (the one who hit "like" and never looked back)

Wherever the war sends you, my yes will still be waiting.

– C.

He closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of her misty perfume within the note paper.

John carefully folded the note and tucked it into his pocket. Her words warmed him more than the morning sun peeking over the horizon.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself for the mission ahead.

Though, his heart broke piece by piece as he bit the inside of his left cheek. His vision blurred—those traitorous tears pooling despite every drill-hardened reflex that ordered him to keep it together. He bowed his head so the rim of the turret hid him from the line of trucks behind.

Bloody hell, Price, he scolded himself, knuckles whitening on the ring-mount. Old dog, remember?

But the words on that page had gone straight through flak and bone, settling in the one place war had never fully reached.

A throat cleared beside him.

"You alright, Price?" Simon asked, his focus on the front while driving.

John swallowed hard, forced steel back into his tone. "Wind in my eyes, Riley."

A pause—long enough to mean I saw the tremor too—Simon shrugged.

He pulled the note out once more, tracing the last line with a calloused thumb.

Wherever the war sends you, my yes will still be waiting.

A brittle laugh escaped him; it sounded half like a sob. He placed the note back to where it belong and turned his focus to his side window. Watching the countryside roll by, he began thinking of Charlie waiting back home. Picturing her big smile and those beautiful brown eyes he could get lost in for hours.

She was his rock, his light that guided him through the darkest nights.

As long as she was there waiting, he knew his time of service is his last.

***

As the military convoy veered off the M25 and followed the route through West London, the grey morning gave way to clearer skies, streaked with orange and gold. RAF Northolt appearance in the distance like the airbase perimeter—lined with barbed wire, surveillance cameras, and military personnel—signaled the shift from the civilian world to the threshold of war.

Once cleared through the final checkpoint, John stood tall on the turret as the convoy eased into the motor pool. The air was brisk, crisp with the scent of jet fuel, concrete, and early winter frost. Planes rested like sleeping titans on the runways beyond, and a Chinook's deep rotors thrummed in the distance.

They pulled into a holding bay, tires crunching gravel as the line of trucks rolled to a halt. Simon turned off the ignition and cracked his neck, while John remained up top for a second longer—scanning. Ground crews moved swiftly in the background, marshals with orange batons guiding a C-17 to position. RAF personnel in blue-grey uniforms hurried about, prepping equipment and coordinating logistics.

Then he saw them.

Clustered by a cargo truck near the eastern hangar stood Soap, Cam, Roach, Danny, and Gaz—each already suited up, weapons holstered, vests loaded, their faces calm and ready. Cam leaned against the hood of a Humvee, arms crossed as she nodded at something Gaz said. Roach had his sleeves pushed up, warming his fingers over rubbing his other hand of his fingerless gloves, while Danny in her combat boots, camo tactical pants and an half-zipped hoodie over a dark shirt rolled like she was ready to rock and barrel roll.

Soap, as always, was the first to notice the incoming Rover. His eyes caught them from a distance and a slow grin spread across his face.

"The Captain and soon-to-be a groom finally arrived!" Soap began as he saw him and Simon coming forward before the loadmaster.

As John handed off his bag kit to a nearby loadmaster and tugged his tactical gloves tighter, while still holding on the lunch bag. Simon did the same except carrying his backpack over his one shoulder. They meet the rest of the team, their posture straightened and their faces lighting up with the kind of respect only earned.

John stopped before them. The lines on his face were stern, his beard darker, and his eyes shielded behind those pitch-black aviators that always made him look one part legend and storm.

Soap was on him first—strong arm slapping across John's back.

"About damn time, Cap'n!" he crowed. "You finally bent the knee. How's it feel t' be properly leashed?"

John gave the Scot a flat look. "Leashed?"

"Aw come on, Price. You love her, right?"

Then, he frowned. "Who told you?"

The rest of the crew behind Soap, they stared at him as if it was unnecessary to bring that up now. Exclude Cam since she tried not giggle over her boyfriend mischief slash giddiness of acting like a proud parent.

"Eh, no one," Soap answered but quickly corrected himself, "—no wait! Actually, Simon finally open the cat bag and we found out ourselves when you were having a good night at a dance."

John frown deeper as he glanced sideways at Simon, who didn't return the look, his face remaining stoic with a faint trace of a smirk, just before Soap.

"You weren't supposed to know, MacTavish."

"Too late, Captain," Soap smiled big. "My matchmaking skill has put into good use!"

Then, this made Simon roll his eyes. "You done, Johnny?"

"No," Soap said, still grinning. "I'm just getting started. I mean, it's been three months since Captain Grumpy was an old bastard, and now, he's in love with a wee lamb. And, I was the one who slid the DMs first on her before he took over." He jabbed his thumb at himself. "I should be givin'a speech at the weddin'. Full credit."

John folded his arms, unimpressed. "Tell that story, and I'll tell yours at your wedding one day."

Soap blinked. "What story?"

"The one where you start eyein' my daughter like she's the cure for all your stupid."

Soap went wide-eyed. "Whoa—no, hang on. Hang on." He held up both hands like he was caught red-handed. "This escalated very quickly."

Cam muttered, deadpan, "Welcome to dating me."

Danny wheezed behind them, nearly dropping her helmet. Gaz snorted and shook his head as he muttered, "oh hell, here comes now the Captain."'

"So if you're gonna be family, MacTavish," John continued, "we need to start talkin' dowry."

Gaz then lost it. "Dowry?! What year are we in?"

John didn't flinch. "I want a goat. Two crates of whisky. Three packs of Cuban Cigars. And your recent consoles. Xbox and PS5."

Soap pointed at him. "That's unfair punishment, that is! I can handle the rest, but not my consoles!"

"Should've thought of that before you got handsy with my daughter," John replied, utterly deadpan.

Roach added helpfully, "I've got a goat guy, if it helps."

Soap whirled around. "You have a goat guy?"

"I know people."

Danny was doubled over now, giggling into her flak vest.

Cam just sighed and closed her eyes, shaking her head while trying now to laugh.

Simon finally spoke, cool as ice. "One day, we're gonna die in the field, and this'll be the last conversation we had about dowry. I'll make sure to update my wife when we get to Prague."

Soap groaned and lifted his gaze above before meeting him. "Still want a toast at the wedding, though. Least Charlie will teach ya how to chill."

"The only time I'll be 'chill' MacTavish is when she stops me from coming after you."

A ripple of laughter rolled through the group.

Gaz stepped up next, offering a firm handshake that slid easily into a brief hug. "Congratulations, Captain. Charlie has officially out-kicked your coverage, sir."

"Too right," Danny chimed, bouncing on her toes. "I nearly cried when Cam told me you were gonna propose to her at the dance! Big, bad Captain Price—secret romantic! I'm living for it."

John grumbled good-naturedly. "You lot act like I proposed on the JumboTron."

"Hey, the best time happens is when it became a memory you won't forget," Roach said before pulling out a small morale-patch from his pocket—an embroidered gold ring with crossed rifles behind it. He handed it to him before giving him a big smile and looked at Danny.

"Oh, and Cam figured you could use new unit insignia," Danny said with a grin.

John accepted it, thumb brushing the stitching. "Cheers, mate. Goes on the ruck tonight."

Soap folded his arms, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Right then, bachelor do. Prague's got decent pubs—"

"Focus, Sergeant," John cut in, though the smirk had broken fully across his beard. "Mission first. Celebrations after."

"After we kick Zakarov's teeth in," Gaz agreed, clapping Roach's shoulder.

Cam pointed at John's vest pocket where the letter rested. "Just remember, Captain: happy fiancées expect video calls. You take cover, hit record, and say 'I'm alive.' Got it?"

John shook his head, chuckling. "All of you—enough. Saddle up. We've a bird to catch, messes to clean, and a war to finish so I can get home to my girl."

Soap gave a sharp salute. "Then let's end it fast. For Captain Price's happily-ever-after."

A chorus of "Oorahs" and chuckles followed as they fell into file behind him, boots clacking on the tarmac toward the yawning belly of the C-17. For once, the banter didn't feel like armor; it felt like a send-off quilted with family and promise—fuel for whatever fight waited across the Channel.

John watched them while Simon stood beside him as he glanced at him.

"Ready to kick ass, Price?"

John reached up with a single gloved hand and pulled his aviators down onto the bridge of his nose—revealing the steady, lethal blue of his eyes underneath. The corner of his mouth twitched—just enough when he looked at Simon back.

"Always."

And just like that, Simon lifted his hand with a fist and John placed his fist back to him. They turned toward it, and tucked against his heart, her letter beat in time with every step.

He walked toward his hangar for his final mission.

She was his home, and he will return soon.