The sun cast long shadows across the outskirts of the base, where gravel met quiet earth and the weight of war seemed to pause, just for a breath. You stood beside Captain Price, walking the perimeter of the empty lot where the new cabin would be built—one meant not for missions or strategy, but for rest. A place where the 141 could finally exhale after five grueling months of deployment.

Their break was still months away, but Price wanted to get ahead of it. “When they finally get time off, I want it ready,” he told you, voice steady with purpose. “Not just a shelter. Somewhere they can breathe.”

You understood.

You weren’t just an architect—you were the architect. Known for designing spaces that felt alive, that healed. Price had seen your work before and trusted no one else to give his team the peace they’d earned.

The rumble of an incoming vehicle cut through the air. The taskforce had some downtime before the next briefing, and Price wanted them to weigh in. The jeep pulled up, dust curling in its wake. Soap and Gaz were locked in easy banter, the kind that masked exhaustion with laughter. You could hear it through the window—something about who’d win in a fight: a grizzly bear or Soap with one arm tied behind his back.

The door creaked open, and Simon “Ghost” Riley stepped out. He said nothing. Just stood there.

And then he saw you.

His steps faltered. He didn’t even try to mask it. The others kept joking, but Simon… he stared. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable—but in a way that told you, somehow, he hadn't expected you. That maybe, in a world full of blood and violence, you were something too soft, too rare, too… grounding.

You were talking to Price, flipping through sketches in your folder, explaining options for materials and insulation when Simon approached. He lingered back as the others joined, but his gaze never wavered.

You turned with a smile and greeted the team, your voice calm, collected—like you weren’t standing in front of legends. Gaz wanted a sunroom. Soap asked for a barbecue pit and a stereo system “with proper bass.” Price requested quiet, open space with strong walls—“no weak points,” he’d muttered, almost out of habit. And Simon’s voice, low and thoughtful, cut through: “Something with a loft. Tucked-away. Somewhere... you can think.”

You nodded, writing quickly. “Got it. I’ll get the concept sketch ready in a week or less and run it by you all. Should give us time to build before your break hits in five months.”

They all murmured thanks and headed off, talking about drinks and a poker game at the bar nearby. You turned to gather your things—but again, the crunch of boots behind you made you pause.

It was Simon.

You glanced up as he approached. He looked like he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how to say it. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to lift his mask—but didn’t.

He cleared his throat, eyes shifting away for just a second before locking onto yours again.

“Wait…” His voice was low, rough—but there was a crack in it. “I, uh… I wanted to ask if I could see you. Before the sketch’s ready. Not about the cabin. Just you.”

He looked nervous. The masked man built of armor and silence—nervous.

“Not sure how long this war’ll let me have moments like this,” he added, barely above a whisper. “Would be a shame if I didn’t try.”