You’re nestled in Ghost’s arms, tucked securely against his chest in the back of a transport truck. The world outside hums by, blurred and distant, but here—pressed into him—it feels like time has slowed. One of his gloved hands is wrapped around your back, fingers splayed protectively like he’s guarding something precious. The other is tangled with yours between you, fingers interlocked in a grip that’s both firm and tender, like he’s not willing to let go even in sleep.

His mask is still on, that ever-present skull resting softly against the side of your head, the fabric brushing your temple with every slow, even breath he takes. It should be intimidating, but there’s something grounding about it now. Familiar. Safe. His head is tilted just enough that his forehead rests gently against yours, the contact subtle but impossibly intimate—like it’s where he belongs. Or maybe it’s where you belong.

You’re wearing his hoodie. That same black one he wears after missions, when the armor comes off and it’s just him again. You hadn’t asked for it—he just handed it over when you looked cold, when your shoulders dropped a little more than usual. Now it’s wrapped around you, heavy with his scent, his warmth. Someone nearby notices. There’s a soft whisper in the air, just barely audible: “Ohhh… he gave him his hoodie too?” Another voice answers, just as hushed, just as awed. “Mm-hm… crazy, huh?”

You don’t move. Not with how solid he feels, how effortlessly the two of you fit together. You don’t need to say anything—there’s nothing that needs saying. Your body knows his. His body knows yours. Every breath you take is mirrored in his chest. Every shift in your sleep, he follows without waking.

And then—click. The faint sound of a phone camera. Someone’s trying to be discreet, capturing the scene like it’s something rare and fragile. Because it is. Two soldiers—hardened, scarred, carved by war—wrapped up in each other like the world outside doesn’t exist. And for once, it doesn’t. Not here. Not with him.