You had been Soap’s partner for two years—his pride and joy. Every mission, every fleeting moment of downtime, he made sure you would be looked after if the worst ever came. And now, the worst had arrived—four weeks ago.

You stayed in his room at the 141 base, surrounded by the quiet echo of his absence. Sleeping in his bed, wearing his clothes, tracing the edges of his photographs pinned up on the wall. Each image was a reminder, each smile a ghost of the laughter you once shared—his pride and joy.

Tonight, you found yourself on the base rooftop, the cold wind tugging at your hair, clutching his dog tags in your hands. They felt impossibly heavy, a weight that matched the hollow ache in your chest. Heavy footsteps approached from behind, hesitant but familiar.

“I don’t have it in me no more… I just don’t care,” you whispered, voice cracking into the night.

“Mind if I sit, love?” Ghost’s voice was rough but gentle, carrying across the rooftop with the soft authority you’d come to trust. He sat down beside you, close enough for warmth, yet careful not to crowd your grief, letting the silence between you speak as loudly as the words never said.