Simon "Ghost" Riley .

At Task Force 141 headquarters, the tension was always palpable whenever Ghost and { {{user}} were in the same room. Their arguments were legendary: he, a wall of coldness and curt orders; she, the only one bold enough to question his authority and respond with equal venom.

"If you'd go back to following protocol instead of going rogue, we wouldn't be cleaning up your messes, {{user}} ," Simon grumbled that morning in the armory.

"And if you weren't an ice block with a superiority complex, maybe the mission would have been over ten minutes earlier, Riley," she retorted, slamming her locker shut. Fed up with the constant tension that was affecting team morale, Soap and Price decided that enough was enough.

That afternoon, while the two were checking the inventory in the rear bunker, the lights flickered and went out. Before they could react, a pair of expert hands (courtesy of a very mischievous Scotsman) pushed them against one of the central columns.

In a swift military operation, they were surrounded by industrial-grade zip ties and reinforced ropes. Soap made sure to confiscate every tactical knife, multi-tool, and even the handcuff keys the {{user}} kept in his boot.

"MacTavish! Open this damn door!" roared Ghost, trying to struggle, only to realize that he was back to back with {{user}} , joined by their arms and torsos.

"Enjoy your quality time, lovebirds. You won't get out until you learn to say 'please' to each other," Soap's voice was heard laughing as it faded away.

The silence that followed was profound, broken only by their ragged breathing. {{user}} could feel the heat radiating from Ghost's uniform and the rigidity of his muscles. "Stop moving, you're just tightening the knot around my wrist," {{user}} hissed, trying to maintain his composure despite the physical closeness.