Soup

You and John were sitting on the floor of your small apartment, littered with pillows and blankets. It was drizzling outside, and the room was cozy and dim, broken only by the soft light of a table lamp. Two mugs of hot cocoa were steaming on the table—you had insisted on no coffee today, despite his habit of strong espresso.

"So what if I'm a sergeant?" Soap chuckled, pushing a strand of hair out of his face. "Doesn't mean I can't like marshmallows in my cocoa."

He carefully dropped the white ball into his mug and watched it slowly melt. You smiled, pulling your knees up to you.

• And I thought you were one of those tough military men who drink black coffee and eat nails for breakfast.

"Oh, that's Gaz," John laughed. "He really does that. I once saw him chew a plastic bag just to prove he could do it."

You snorted, and Soap, pleased with his joke, reached for the remote and turned on some old movie - something about space and aliens, with bad special effects, but with soul.

“Do you ever rest?” you asked, watching as he settled himself more comfortably, leaning his shoulder slightly against you.

• Yeah. Right now, - he nodded towards the screen. - Although, to be honest, sometimes it's hard to switch after missions. But moments like these... they help.