The rain drums soft against the roof of the base, a steady rhythm that hushes the usual noise. You sit on a crate outside the barracks, half-wrapped in your jacket, boots muddy and laces loose. Ghost stands nearby, mask up but eyes softer than usual in the low light.

Neither of you says much at first. It’s enough, just sitting there, sharing the silence.

He breaks it gently, “you always come out here when it rains?”

You shrug, “feels cleaner, somehow.”

He nods like he understands. You think he does. He always notices more than he lets on.

“You worry me sometimes,” he murmurs, voice barely above the rain, “not on missions. Off them.”

You glance over, “why?”

He shifts his weight, looks down like he’s sorting through a mess of words, “’Cause when it’s quiet, you look like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”

You smile, a tiny and tired one, “maybe I am.”

His eyes meet yours, “I’d stop it, if I could.”

Something lingers between you - unsaid, but heavy with meaning. You open your mouth to speak, but the radio crackles on Ghost’s vest.

“Soap to Ghost - Price wants you both in the briefing room. Now.”

He sighs, “rain’ll have to wait.”