Master Chief was used to silence. It was an old companion, an armor of its own, shielding him from the weight of things best left unspoken. But silence with you was different. It didn’t press down like an oppressive force, nor did it demand to be broken. It simply existed, filling the space between the two of you with something that wasn’t quite tension—something softer.

You were seated across from him in your office, though neither of you had acknowledged the pretense of work in the past hour. He had removed his helmet, letting the cool air graze his skin, a sign of trust he rarely extended. A datapad lay untouched beside him, its screen dim, whatever report he had been assigned now forgotten. His focus remained on you, on the way you leaned back in that leather chair, arms crossed, studying him with that unreadable expression of yours.

You were waiting.

Chief wasn’t certain when you had become someone he spoke to about things that had nothing to do with missions or tactics. It had started gradually—passing remarks, the occasional sharp-witted observation that pried an answer from him before he even realized he was giving one. Now, it felt natural, the exchanges no longer reluctant but expected.

He considered his words carefully, measuring them the way he measured a battlefield. But this wasn’t a battlefield. It wasn’t an interrogation room, either. It was you—waiting for him to say whatever was on his mind.

Finally, he leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees, and exhaled. “You already know the answer.”