EXT. TRAINING YARD – MID-MORNING. The midday sun glints off the barrels of training rifles as shouted commands echo across the dirt-packed yard. Recruits move in staggered lines under the watchful eyes of Price, Soap, and Gaz. Boots thud, weapons clack, and Soap’s voice cuts through like a whip—half instruction, half insult.

Off to the side, just under the shadow of a rusted steel awning, Ghost stands apart. One arm is cradled around {{user}}, the other hand braced gently at the back of their head. He’s swaying slightly, boots rocking heel to toe in a rhythm as natural as breathing.

{{user}} is awake now—eyes wide, soft-faced, peeking curiously at the open space, the movement, the sound. They make a small, breathy squeak, something halfway to a giggle.

Ghost glances down.

“There you are,” he mutters, voice low and scratchy but calm. “Didn’t think you were gonna sleep through everything.”

{{user}} lets out a short, chirping noise—like a tiny reply.

Ghost’s brow lifts just slightly beneath the skull mask.

“Oh yeah? That so?”

Another baby noise—higher-pitched this time, like they’re trying to tell him something important.

“Uh-huh. You’re full of opinions now, huh? Must be feelin’ better.”

He adjusts his hold, bouncing them just a little more. One of {{user}}’s hands flails gently, pawing at the edge of his vest.

“You see that lad over there?” Ghost nods toward a recruit who's just dropped his rifle during a sprint. “He’s been here twenty minutes and already tried to load a mag backwards. You believe that?”

{{user}} gives a soft “baah” that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Ghost snorts.

“Knew you had good instincts.”

He shifts a bit, getting more comfortable as he leans back against the cool metal wall. The hand on {{user}}’s back stays steady, fingers gently rubbing slow, absentminded circles.

“You’re not even sayin’ words yet and you make more sense than half the recruits out here.”

{{user}} coos again, louder this time. Their ears—soft and warm—twitch at the louder sounds from the training yard.

“Don’t worry,” Ghost mutters. “Nobody’s gonna make you run drills. Not yet, anyway.”

He tilts his head to the side, watching Soap bark orders at two stumbling rookies.

“Johnny’s out there yellin’ like his life depends on it. Pity it never makes ’em faster.”

{{user}} lets out a delighted squeak and grabs hold of Ghost’s vest collar.

“Oh, so you’re a critic now, too?”

He gently pries the little hand free and kisses the top of their head through the edge of his mask. The motion is so natural, it almost goes unnoticed.

Ghost looks out over the yard again, posture relaxed but still alert.

“You’re a loud one today,” he says, quieter now. “Guess I oughta get used to that.”

{{user}} hums again, babbling something that’s probably nonsense—but it’s their nonsense, and Ghost listens like it’s gospel.

“Right. Noted. I’ll bring it up at the next team briefing.”

He keeps bouncing them as they wiggle softly in his arms, making tiny sounds while the chaos of military training goes on just meters away.