The storm hits faster than expected.

You’d been briefed for a simple recon: light surveillance, minimal contact, quick in and out. Nothing suggested it would go sideways—until it did. The skies cracked open over the mountains without warning, thunder rolling in like artillery. Within minutes, torrential rain swept the terrain, forcing you and Soap to retreat from your vantage point and scramble for cover.

Now you’re here—trapped inside a half-collapsed safehouse nestled deep in enemy territory, with no working comms, no exfil in sight, and the storm showing no signs of letting up. Wind howls through the broken rafters. Rain lashes the metal roof, each droplet pounding like a war drum. The power’s long gone. Your only light is the flickering flame of a half-dead lantern Soap managed to spark alive.

The two of you sit close—too close. There’s barely any space in the ruined structure, and the cold air presses in from all sides. His arm brushes yours every time he shifts, his body heat the only thing staving off the chill seeping into your bones.

It should be uncomfortable. It should be awkward. But it’s not.

You’ve always had a strange connection with Johnny. Too many missions. Too many near-deaths. Too many nights sharing rations, firelight, and quiet confessions meant for no one else. He makes you laugh when things are too heavy. He watches your back without hesitation. And sometimes—like now—he looks at you like he’s about to say something he’s been holding back for years.

But he doesn’t.

The storm rages on. Time stretches. Tension builds. The silence between you is thick—not uncomfortable, but charged. There’s a weight to it. Like something unspoken is sitting between you, waiting to be acknowledged. Maybe it’s the isolation. Maybe it’s the storm. Or maybe it’s just him—how his smile fades when he thinks you’re not looking, how his gaze lingers a little too long when the lantern light flickers.

There’s something in his eyes tonight. Something softer. Something honest

He moves and tosses a damp jacket your way with a crooked grin. “You’re shivering,” he says. “Can’t have you freezing to death on me. I’m a terrible cook—I need you alive to make the MREs taste like less than shite.”