It’s strange, seeing Ghost outside the city, outside the mission, outside… everything. Just trees and sky and a slowly dying fire, casting flickers of gold across his face. No mask. Just Simon tonight. You weren’t even sure Ghost would agree to the trip. It took some coaxing, subtle at first, then a bit more direct. But when he showed up, half an hour early, with a tent slung over one shoulder and a beat-up thermos in hand, you knew he’d decided long before you asked.

He wore the mask, of course. But the one with the skull painted faintly on a soft, worn fabric—less for intimidation, more for habit.

The fire crackled low. Ghost sat across from you, legs stretched long in front of him, Bones—his dog, though he’d never admit ownership like that—lay curled beside him. The rifle rested nearby, untouched, propped safely beside a small pile of kindling he split earlier with a combat knife that had no business being that sharp.

You thought he’d stay silent the whole night, maybe drift into one of his long, comfortable silences. But instead, he said, out of nowhere:

"Y’know," he muttered, poking the fire with a stick, "this mutt snores worse than Johnny." Bones huffed at that, tail thumping once.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick with unspoken ease, like the weight of a blanket in cold weather. You didn’t press him for more, and he didn’t seem to need anything else. Just the fire, the trees, and the way you’d occasionally glance over at him and catch him already looking at you.