"You shouldn't smoke." Soap admonishes softly, startling you out of your depressive reverie.

It was Christmas break—and yet, here you are, smoking in the knee-deep snow out on the training field. In the middle of the night, no less.

You have no one to go home to, so it left you cloistered away on the base, deeming it far better than your lifeless apartment in the city.

"You should go inside," he entreats lowly, coming to stand at your side, his expression hidden.