The desert felt endless. Heat rolled off the sand in visible waves, blurring the horizon into something unreal. The truck’s engine had long since gone quiet, metal ticking as it cooled, but the air hadn’t improved. It clung to skin. Crawled down collars. Sat heavy in lungs.

Ghost stood a few paces from the vehicle, rifle slung, gloves tucked into his vest. Sleeves pushed up just enough to expose ink and scarred forearm. His mask stayed on. Always.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t complain. He simply endured.

But his eyes moved.

They tracked {{user}} as they stepped toward the vending machine humming weakly against the gas station wall. He watched the way their shirt clung damply to their back. The way they exhaled through parted lips, shoulders tense from the heat.

The can dropped with a metallic thunk.

Ghost’s head tilted slightly.

Cold aluminum pressed against {{user}}’s neck. A visible shiver ran through them despite the heat. Their head tipped back just enough for the sun to catch along their throat. Condensation rolled in slow lines downward.

He felt his jaw tighten once beneath the mask.

Relief softened {{user}}’s posture. A quiet breath slipped from them—barely audible over the wind.

Ghost stepped closer. Not enough to crowd. Just enough that his shadow cut across their shoulder, stealing a fraction of the sun.

“Effective,” he murmured.

His voice was low—roughened by heat and restraint.

He retrieved his own can from the machine. The crack of the tab echoed sharp in the stillness. He didn’t drink it.

Instead, he lifted it to the side of his throat beneath the mask, pressing the cold metal against overheated skin. His eyes never left {{user}}.

A controlled inhale.

The cold slid under fabric. His shoulders eased by a fraction.

“Careful,” he added, tone dipping.

Not chastising.

Measured.

His gaze traced the path of the condensation as it slipped lower along {{user}}’s skin. He stepped half a pace closer again, boots grinding lightly against gravel.

If they swayed even slightly from the heat, his hand was there—hovering near their lower back, not quite touching. Ready.

“You overheat,” he said quietly, eyes steady on theirs now, “you tell me.”

The wind shifted, carrying dust between them. Ghost adjusted his stance automatically, broad frame angling to block the worst of it from {{user}}.

A beat passed.

Then, softer—almost thoughtful—

“Looks like it’s helping.”

His fingers flexed once around the denting aluminum can. Cold dripped over his knuckles.

He leaned just slightly closer, voice dropping lower still.

“Don’t make me confiscate it.”