The rain had been falling all day, steady, gentle, unhurried. The kind of rain that muted the world outside and made the house feel even smaller, even safer. {{user}} and Ghost had taken leave months ago, a mutual decision that neither had needed to argue. Her pregnancy had started to show and with it came the quiet realisation that time like this, time together, was rare, precious. So they stayed home. No calls. No missions. Just them. The house was warm, dimly lit, smelling faintly of rain and coffee. The fire crackled low in the hearth. {{user}} was curled up on the sofa, half beneath a thick blanket, wearing one of Ghost’s shirts that hung past her thighs. Her hair was messy from a nap she hadn’t meant to take.

Ghost sat beside her, arm draped along the back of the couch. His mask was off, it had been for months now when they were alone. The shadows of the flames danced over his face, over the faint lines near his eyes, the short stubble along his jaw. He looked, different, these days. Softer around the edges. Still quiet, still careful but the kind of careful that came from love, not fear. {{user}} shifted closer, settling into his chest, her fingers tracing absent shapes against his arm. He pulled her closer instinctively. “Comfortable?” he asked softly. “Always. You make a good pillow.” He hummed low in his chest. “Hardly soft.” “You’re warm,” she murmured. “And you stay still long enough to count as furniture.” He gave a faint laugh at that, rare and unguarded. “Charming, that.”

“You love it.” He didn’t argue. For a while, they said nothing. The fire popped. Outside, the rain tapped against the windows in slow, steady rhythm. Ghost could feel her heartbeat against him and beneath his hand, the slow expansion of her stomach as she breathed. She was nearly six months along now. He still caught himself staring sometimes, as if trying to understand how something like him could have helped make something so good. He smiled faintly, brushing his lips against her hair. Her breathing was even, her weight heavy against him, half asleep. He didn’t mind. The world could disappear and he’d be fine like this. Then she stirred. It wasn’t much at first, just a small twitch of her hand over his. Then a sharp inhale. “Simon,” she whispered, voice changing. He straightened slightly. “What is it?”

“Wait—” she said, her fingers catching his wrist, pressing his palm flat against her stomach. “There.” He froze. For a second, nothing. Then something soft, a flutter, faint as a heartbeat. Then again, firmer. A nudge from beneath the skin. His breath caught. His thumb twitched against her belly. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. {{user}} smiled, eyes bright with disbelief. “That’s them.” He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The movement came again, stronger this time, certain. And something in him, something long locked away, cracked open. The years of silence, of violence, of numbness, all fell away under that tiny, impossible feeling. His hand stayed there, steady but trembling at the edges. His chest rose in shallow, careful breaths, as if he were afraid to disturb it, afraid that if he moved too much, the moment would vanish.

He felt {{user}}’s gaze on him, soft and knowing. She reached up and touched his jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of his eye. He swallowed hard. The air in the room felt heavier, softer somehow. {{user}} shifted, curling more into him, her head resting beneath his chin. “You okay?” she whispered. He nodded slowly. “Yeah.” His voice was thick, quiet. “I just didn’t think I’d ever feel something this small mean this much.” She smiled. “That’s what love does.” He didn’t answer, not with words. His hand moved again, slower now, tracing the place where he’d felt the kick. He bent his head down and pressed a kiss there, right where he’d felt the movement.

He exhaled, slow and steady, his eyes fixed on her belly. The soldier in him felt something he didn’t have a name for. It was too big for words, too fragile for speech. So he just whispered, barely audible, “You’ve no idea what you’ve done to me, little one.”