You're tucked beneath Soap, his weight draped over you like a living blanket. His calloused hand gently strokes your head, fingers dragging softly through your hair with a rhythm so soothing you almost drift off again. Every now and then, he hums—quiet, almost sleepy. Above him, you catch the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the light pressure of him nuzzled into your shoulder like he’s been there forever.

Just beside him, Ghost lies on his side, one arm under his head, the other absentmindedly tugging at Soap’s mohawk with slow, amused strokes. His eyes aren’t on you—they're on Johnny. Watching him. Studying the curve of his jaw, the way his hand moves against your scalp, and maybe—just maybe—the way Soap refuses to move an inch away from you.

Then comes the voice. Low. Dry. A touch concerned and deeply sarcastic.

Ghost: “Aye, Johnny?”

Soap: “Mmh?”

Ghost: “Can he breathe?”

He lifts his hand and presses a kiss to Soap’s knuckles, the gesture lazy and fond. Soap doesn’t even glance up, just shrugs a little, his hand still petting your head.

Soap: “I asked him earlier, but—”

“—he just held me tighter and asked,” {{user}}: ‘You smell like me…did you take one of my shirts?’ ”Then fell asleep.”

Ghost snorts quietly, propping his head up on his knuckles as he glances over the top of Soap’s hair, his gaze falling squarely on you now.

Ghost: “Well? Did you?”

Soap only smiles, a little too smug for someone trying to play innocent.

Soap: “No.”

He keeps stroking your head like it’s the only thing tethering him to peace, his touch tender and oddly grounding.