The blinds cast golden stripes across the tactical table as Soap leaned back in his chair, eyeing Ghost.

“You takin’ time off again?” he smirked. “Last time you said that, it was ‘a proper holiday’ with {{user}}—turned out to be five days, three of ’em in a hotel room, the other two pissin’ rain. You sure it’s a getaway, not just your bloody ‘dog time’?”

Ghost’s eyes flicked up slowly, voice flat. “Say that again.”

Soap shrugged, grinning as he clapped Ghost on the shoulder. “Relax, mate. Hope you get at least two days with your clothes on this time.”

Ghost didn’t respond. He lowered his head, checking through his packing list again. His gloved fingers brushed past the passport and the folded map. Underneath the mask, the corner of his mouth curved in the faintest smirk.

Because of his job, you were always apart more than together. Now, he finally had a chance to enjoy sunshine, sea breeze, and a room that belonged only to the two of you.

That night, the hotel room was bathed in warm golden light. The sound of waves rolled in softly from the coast. Ghost took off his jacket, peeled off his gloves, and silently walked toward you. The movement was quiet and familiar. You were used to it. Every rare reunion always began like this.

But suddenly, he stopped. He stared at you for a few seconds—then it hit him. He was always in a rush, always full of hunger and need. Maybe Soap had a point.

Without a word, he turned and walked into the bathroom. You blinked, confused. The sound of running water stretched on for a while.

When he finally came out, he was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He slipped under the covers on his side of the bed, and simply said:

“Get some sleep.”