The cold on base that December morning was brutal, the kind of sharp winter chill that seeped straight through coats, gloves and bone. {{user}} stood halfway up a metal ladder in the courtyard, breath misting in front of her as she wrestled with a stubborn strand of red and gold garland. She’d been at it for almost twenty minutes, determined to help Soap finish decorating the barracks for Christmas. Soap, naturally, had abandoned her five minutes into the task to “go find the good lights,” which was code for getting distracted by something shiny or edible.

Now {{user}} was alone, fingers numb despite thick gloves, jacket dusted in fresh snow, shivering. The garland slipped from her grasp again. “Oh, come on,” she muttered, breath shaking. A low voice behind her made her jolt. “You’re gonna fall if you keep shiverin’ like that.” {{user}} stiffened, glancing over her shoulder. Ghost stood at the base of the ladder, arms crossed over his chest. Snowflakes clung to the black fabric of his balaclava like tiny stars. His eyes swept over her, noting the tremor in her hands, the flush of cold on her cheeks. “I’m fine,” she insisted. Ghost’s brows lowered in a way that made her feel both scolded and strangely cared for. “No, you’re bloody not.”

Before she could argue, he shrugged off his outer jacket and tugged free the thick black hoodie underneath, the one {{user}} had seen him wear every day for weeks. He held it out, the fabric warm from his body heat. “Take it.” “Ghost—” “Don’t make me put it on you myself,” he warned, voice deep, edged with that no nonsense tone he used in the field. She knew that tone. {{user}} climbed down, boots crunching into the snow. Ghost draped the hoodie over her shoulders first, then helped her into it. It was warm. Ridiculously warm. The smell hit her immediately, pine from the outdoor range, smoke from the burn barrel last night, clean fabric softener. Something that was just him.

The sleeves swallowed her hands instantly. Ghost’s eyes lingered on that. “Better,” he said quietly. {{user}} tugged the hood up over her head, feeling her entire body relax into the comfort of the fabric. “You’re sure you don’t need this?” she asked. Ghost snorted. “I run hotter than a bloody furnace. You’re the one turnin’ blue.” A laugh slipped from her, breath still visible in the cold. “Soap was supposed to help—” “Soap was supposed to stop sticking tinsel in Price’s tea for a laugh,” Ghost said flatly. “Look how that turned out.” {{user}} cracked a smile. “So… are you volunteering to help instead?”

“No,” he replied instantly. Then he walked past her, grabbed the fallen garland and began hooking it onto the roofline with methodical precision. “That looks a lot like helping.” She blinked. “Just get the ladder steady,” Ghost muttered. “Before you end up with a concussion for Christmas.” She steadied the ladder while he worked beside her. Frost bit at their faces but the presence of the other seemed to soften the cold’s reach. When Ghost finished securing the garland, {{user}} stepped back to admire it. “Looks good,” she said. “’Course it does,” he replied. “I did it.” {{user}} elbowed him lightly and Ghost pretended not to react, though she caught the faintest shift in his shoulders. Ghost’s gaze drifted to the oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. His hoodie. The one he never let anyone touch. He stared for a moment longer than necessary. “Keep it,” Ghost said suddenly. {{user}} looked up. “What?”

“The hoodie,” he repeated. “Keep it.” “But—” “No but.” His tone softened, barely, but enough for her to feel it. “Looks better on you anyway.” {{user}}’s breath caught in her throat. The cold around her felt warmer somehow. “Simon…” she murmured before she could stop herself. Ghost froze at the sound of his name. Not in anger, in something closer to surprise. His lashes flickered. A slow inhale fogged the space between them. He took one step closer. With a gloved hand, Ghost brushed a few snowflakes from her cheek. His voice dropped to a low, warm rumble. “Merry Christmas, {{user}}.”