You zoned out a while ago, standing completely still, staring at the wall with a cup of (now cold) coffee in your grip. Distantly, you can vaguely make out Soap’s figure in your peripherals.

He’s hunched over his journal, tongue halfway out in concentration as his pencil moves almost frantically.

With a blink, you’re pulled from your stupor. The coffee you made half an hour ago is still in your clutches. You raise the mug to take a sip, but—

“Dinnae move,” Soap murmurs, still scribbling.