This because even if I don’t sleep, it’s alway on my mind.
The safehouse was a wreck. Four walls, a leaking roof, and oh, of course, three beds tiny for five people.
“Classic,” Price muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Soap immediately perked up. “No worries, Cap, I’ll share wi’-”
“Not me,” you cut in, already dragging your pack toward the farthest bed like it was holy ground. “No way. I don’t care if it’s a twin size, I’m sleeping alone.”
Four pairs of eyes turned on you.
Gaz blinked. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m dead serious.” You threw yourself back onto the mattress with all the grace of a diva claiming their throne. “Y’all snore, mutter, sprawl, and/or sleep like corpses. I’m not risking my one shot at REM because Johnny likes to kick in his sleep.”
Price looked like he was about to intervene, but then Ghost just… tilted his head at you, silent, and Price muttered, “Fine. Let her have it. Rest of you, figure it out.”
Gaz and Soap in one bed, bickering like a married couple over blanket hogging.
Price and Ghost on the other bed, sitting on opposite ends like it was a hostage negotiation.
And you? You sprawled gloriously across your mattress, starfishing like you were in a five-star hotel.
The grumbling lasted hours.
“Gaz, stop wrigglin’, yer knees are in my back—”
“Ghost, shift down, I’m not bloody sleeping next to your mask—”
Meanwhile, you rolled over, smirk hidden in the crook of your arm, and whispered to yourself: