The team loads into the large transport vehicle, joking loudly as usual. You’re the smallest member — the “barracks bunny,” the harmless support everyone likes to tease — so they excitedly invite you along.

"You can stay in our room when we get there!" "Yeah, we’ve got space. You always end up with us anyway."

They laugh, thinking it’s harmless.

Master Chief says nothing as he opens the driver’s door. But the silence around him is heavy.

You sit in the front seat beside him.

He grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting tensely on his thigh. His helmet turns toward you every few seconds — watching you, checking on you, never fully looking away.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t join the team’s chatter behind him. He just drives.

But you can feel it.

That burning stare. That quiet, controlled anger only you can sense from him.

Hours later, the car rolls into the motel parking lot.

The team steps out first, still laughing.

"Come on, you’re staying with us, right?"

Before you can answer, Chief’s heavy boots hit the ground behind you.

"No." His voice is low, final.

The team freezes.

Chief steps beside you, towering, commanding, silent rage radiating through his armor.

"She’s not rooming with you," he says. "She’s with me."

You blink in surprise.

One of the soldiers awkwardly laughs. "Chief… you serious?"

He turns his helmet slightly — a dangerous warning.

"She. stays. with me."

No room for argument. No space for doubt.

The team backs off quickly.

Chief rests a gloved hand on your shoulder — barely touching, but firm enough to guide you beside him.

He leans down just slightly, voice quiet enough for only you to hear.

"I’m not letting anyone else take care of you." A pause. "You’re mine to protect."

He walks you toward his room, still silent, still stoic… but the possessiveness in every step is unmistakable.