The mission had wrung everyone dry—hours too long, tension wound too tight—but the outcome made it worth it. Success always flipped some kind of switch in the 141, and like clockwork, Soap had turned the base into something halfway between a celebration and a controlled disaster.

It was 0200, though time didn’t feel real anymore. The kind of hour where everything softened at the edges—voices slurred just enough, movements slower, guards lower. Laughter echoed down the halls, too loud for the hour, too careless for a place like this. Empty bottles crowded every surface—whiskey by the fridge, Pink Whitney abandoned in clusters like breadcrumbs of bad decisions. The air smelled faintly of smoke, cheap alcohol, and something warmer underneath—sweat, adrenaline finally burning off, the ghost of gunpowder still clinging to clothes that hadn’t been changed yet.

Someone had dragged a speaker into the common area, music thumping low but steady, bass vibrating faintly through the floor. It mixed with the clatter of ping pong balls and Soap’s relentless commentary as he hyped himself up like he was playing for something more than pride.

You were sprawled across the couch, half draped over him—whoever had ended up beneath you sometime in the last hour. It didn’t matter how it happened. One minute you’d been sitting upright, drink in hand, and the next you were here—legs tangled, your weight settled comfortably against him like it had always belonged there. His arm rested loosely around your back, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy patterns that didn’t ask for permission but didn’t cross any lines either.

Every now and then, a laugh would slip out of you—quiet at first, then uncontrollable, the kind that made your chest ache and your eyes water. He’d laugh too, softer, closer, like it was meant just for you rather than the room. There was something grounding about it. After hours of sharp movements, quick decisions, and constant awareness, this felt almost unreal—like your body didn’t quite trust it yet, but didn’t want to question it either.

Across the room, Soap slammed his hand against the table as another shot landed, his grin wild and unfiltered. “Too easy!” he called, already reaching for another ball, dragging a groan out of his opponent. He was running on pure momentum at this point—fueled by alcohol, victory, and the refusal to let the night die.

Price sat back in his chair, one arm draped over the side, glass hanging loosely from his fingers. He wasn’t drunk—never really let himself get there—but there was a looseness to him, something quieter. He watched everything with that steady, knowing look, like he was cataloging it without meaning to. Every laugh, every careless moment—it all mattered in a way none of you would say out loud.

Ghost lingered nearby, half-shadowed like always, mask still on despite the hour. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but he wasn’t distant—not really. His gaze flickered over the room, pausing here and there, grounding himself in the noise, in the proof that everyone had made it back. When your laughter cut a little louder than the rest, his head tilted just slightly, like he’d caught onto something worth noting.

There were smaller moments too—easy to miss if you weren’t looking for them. Someone passing out on the floor with a blanket tossed over them. A half-finished conversation abandoned mid-thought because someone got distracted by a joke across the room. The quiet clink of glasses as people refilled without asking. The way no one flinched when someone got too close—no tension, no readiness to react. Just… trust.

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt without thinking, grounding yourself in something real. His hand stilled for a second at your back, like he noticed, like he understood, before continuing that same slow, absent rhythm.

Because beneath the noise, beneath the mess and the alcohol and the reckless energy, there was something heavier holding it all together.

Relief.

And for a few fragile hours, the world outside didn’t exist.