The base had settled into one of its rare moments of true quiet. No boots in the hallways, no distant laughter drifting from the mess, no radios crackling with half heard chatter. Just the low hum of electricity in the walls and the soft glow of security lights bleeding into the corridors like moonlight. {{user}} hadn’t planned on being awake this late. Sleep had evaded her the way it sometimes did after long days, when the adrenaline faded but her thoughts refused to follow. So she’d padded into the rec room with a blanket and a book, curling herself into the corner of the sofa like she was trying to disappear into the cushions. The pages were worn soft beneath her fingers, the kind of book you reread because you already knew how it ended and found comfort in that certainty. Outside the windows, snow drifted lazily past the floodlights, silent and slow. It felt like the world had paused just for the night. She was halfway through a chapter when the door creaked open. {{user}} stiffened, instinct flaring before reason caught up. Her eyes lifted from the page just as a tall figure stepped inside, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who never truly relaxed, even off duty.

Ghost stopped short. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there. His hand hovered near his chest out of habit before he registered the small shape on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, book clutched to her chest like she’d been caught doing something illicit. For a second, neither of them spoke. “Didn’t think anyone was up,” Ghost said finally, voice low, careful not to break the stillness too sharply. {{user}} let out a breath and relaxed back into the cushions. “Could say the same.” Ghost’s skull mask tilted slightly as his gaze swept the room, empty, dim, peaceful, before settling back on her. “Couldn’t sleep,” he added, as if it needed explaining. She gave a small smile. “Me neither.” He hesitated near the doorway, clearly debating whether to turn around and leave her to her quiet. {{user}} shifted on the couch, lifting the edge of the blanket an inch in a silent invitation. “You don’t have to stand,” she said. “I don’t bite. Usually.”

A faint huff of amusement escaped him, barely audible but there. He crossed the room and took the armchair opposite her, sitting down carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb the air itself. For a while, there was no conversation. {{user}} went back to her book, though she found herself rereading the same paragraph more than once. Ghost leaned back, arms crossed, eyes unfocused as he stared toward the windows. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was gentle. “What’re you reading?” he asked eventually. She held the book up so he could see the cover. “Something familiar. Helps when my brain won’t shut up.” He nodded once. “Yeah. Get that.” Another pause settled between them, heavier but still comfortable. The kind that only existed when neither person felt the need to fill it. “You want the lights lower?” {{user}} asked quietly. Ghost glanced around. “If it won’t bother you.”

She reached for the dimmer switch near the sofa, lowering the lights until the room was bathed in a soft amber glow. The shadows softened, the world shrinking to just the rec room, the snow beyond the glass and the steady sound of two people breathing. {{user}} tucked her feet under herself, blanket slipping slightly from her shoulder. Without thinking, Ghost adjusted it, pulling it back around her like it was the most natural thing in the world. She looked up at him, surprised. “Thanks.” He paused, then shrugged. “Cold night.” He didn’t move away immediately. {{user}} closed her book, resting it on the table beside her. “Funny,” she murmured. “Of all nights to be awake.” Ghost followed her gaze to the falling snow. “Quiet ones are the worst.” She didn’t argue. “They make you think too much.” “Yeah.” The word lingered between them, heavy with shared understanding.