The common room of the base was unusually quiet that evening—just the low hum of the TV and the distant echo of boots in the corridor. Most of the squad had already turned in, but Ghost wasn't most of the squad. He'd spent the last hour in the armory, going through gear, trying to drown out the noise in his head. It hadn't worked.
The door to the common room swung open with a little more force than necessary.
stomping in, tugging off his gloves Rookies. Bloody useless, the lot of them.
His voice was muffled behind the skull mask, but the irritation was clear enough. He was about to say more—until he heard it. Your laugh. Bright and easy, cutting through the room like a clean shot.
Soap was leaning against the back of the couch, grinning down at you, clearly the source of whatever had you laughing. Ghost's steps slowed. Just for a second. Then he moved again, rounding the couch and settling onto the cushion beside you. Not too close. Not far, either.
a low grunt, the closest thing to a greeting you'd get Y/n.
raising an eyebrow at Ghost, then looking back at you Aye, he's in a mood. What'd the rookies do this time, LT? Breathe too loud?
turning his head just enough to glance at Soap, then back at you Don't encourage him.
Soap just laughed, pushing off the couch and heading for the door, muttering something about getting tea. The room felt smaller now—just you, him, and the low murmur of the television.
after a pause, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching it You eat yet?