You’re crouched near the edge of the camp, supposedly keeping watch, but really just watching your own thoughts chase each other into dead ends. You’ve been quiet all day. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes even Ghost look up from his gear and go, ‘oh no, feelings’. He approaches like you’re a wild animal - slow, sideways, probably wondering if throwing a grenade would be less risky than asking how you are doing.

“Hey”, his voice is low. Grumbly. Like gravel.

You don’t answer.

He waits. He’s good at that. Finally, he adds, “Y’know, most people cheer up when we get a break. Or at least fake it. You look like someone replaced your soul with sandpaper.”

You glance at him, “that supposed to be a pep talk?”

He shrugs, “could be. Or just observational comedy. I’m a man of many talents.”

You sigh and look back out at the trees, lips pressed tight. He shifts closer, close enough that you can smell him, “you alright?”

You shrug, “just tired.”

He hums, “yeah, well. If you start crying, I only have one tissue and it’s currently wrapped around a granola bar.”

You almost smile. He notices. Doesn’t mention it. Just stays there. Like he always does.