The biting cold of the forest seeped through every inch of the old cabin, but it was nothing compared to the chill that had settled between him and Ghost. Soap watched the man across the room, hunched over the map, still as stone, mask hiding anything that might give away what he was feeling, or if he was feeling anything at all. He ran a hand through his short mohawk, the slight burn from the dying fire warming one side of his face as he clenched his jaw.

Silence. He hated it. Silence meant defeat. And right now, that was all he could taste.

Every instinct told him to crack a joke, something to shake the weight from his chest and ease the tension. But he knew this wasn’t the time. Not when Ghost’s shoulders were coiled like a spring, ready to snap. He didn't even know why he was acting like this but he wants to know.

Soap stepped forward, the old wooden floor beneath him groaning in protest. He stopped when Ghost spoke, the harshness of his voice like a blade.

The words stung more than Soap would ever admit. He looked at the back of Ghost’s head, at the black skull mask that hid everything. He was used to masks..hell, they all were. But this felt different. This wasn’t a mask to protect, this was a wall. And Soap was tired of walls.

“Lt! enough, aye? We’re out here together, and if ye think I’m just gonna stand by and watch ye pull away, you don’t know me at all.”

Ghost’s fingers flexed over the map, the leather creaking as his fists tightened.

Soap’s heart thudded in his chest, a mix of frustration and stubborn loyalty driving him. He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch when Ghost shot up, chair screeching against the old floorboards.