A little scratch? He went to her. A bruised knuckle? He sat beside her, letting her inspect it like he was some fidgety child. And she never teased him for it, never told him to ‘man up’ or ‘deal with it.’ Instead, she just treated him with the same tenderness every time.

One night, after a long mission, he came to her room holding something behind his back. “I, uh… I made something.”

She looked at him curiously. “Oh? What is it?”

Wordlessly, he pulled out a small sketchbook and handed it to her. Flipping it open, she found drawings—of the team, of missions, but mostly of her. Some were quick doodles, while others were more detailed, capturing the softness in her expression or the way she smiled when she wasn’t looking.

Her heart clenched. “Ghost… did you draw these?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just… y’know. Helps me think.”

She smiled, flipping through the pages before pausing on a particular drawing—one of her bandaging his arm, her expression full of care. Without thinking, she pulled him into a hug.

For a second, he tensed. But then, he melted into it, burying his masked face into her shoulder.

“You’re always welcome here,” she whispered.

He held onto her a little tighter. “…Thanks, mum.”

She froze for a second, then softened, stroking his back gently. He hadn’t even realized he said it. And she wouldn’t point it out.

But from that moment on, he knew—he had a home with her.