The safe house is quiet. More than that, it's still. No sirens in the distance. No thudding boots above their heads. No aircraft overhead. No orders being yelled through static-filled comms. Even the wind outside the cracked windows has given up the chase. The walls, chipped and faded, hold the silence like a sanctuary. No echoes of battle. No reminders of the last town they burned their way through.

For once, there’s nothing hunting them. Nothing bleeding in the corner. No trail to cover. No countdown ticking in their heads. Just a quiet room. A creaky floor. A thin mattress. And the two of them, lying side by side. {{user}} breathed out slow, the kind of breath that doesn’t have fear laced in its edges. The kind of breath you forget your body knows how to take. Ghost lay inches from her, still in his gear, mask on. His shoulders rising in time with hers. He didn’t close his eyes. Wasn’t even blinking. His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, the shadows, on her. Like if he looked away, it might all vanish.

They’d been running for so long. From missions, from targets, from ghosts. But not tonight. There’s no one coming. No fight left to win. No blood drying on their hands. {{user}} let her eyes fall shut. Her breathing steady. Body sinking just a little deeper into the mattress like she finally believes, for this night, they're not in a war zone. But Ghost didn’t sleep. He lay there, unmoving, listening. To nothing. And it unnerved him more than bullets ever could. Because silence means no danger. But it also means there's space to think. To feel. To remember. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, memorising the rhythm. Letting his gaze trace the edge of her hairline, the bruise fading on her jaw, the little tear in her sleeve where a bullet came too close. She’s still alive. Still here.

{{user}} shifted slightly, their shoulders touching. Barely. A point of contact so small it could be missed if he wasn’t cataloging every breath, every inch of space between them. Or the lack of it. He turned his head, looking at her. Her lips were parted just enough to soften the sharpness she usually wears like armour. She looks peaceful. He doesn’t trust it. He doesn’t trust anything that quiet. The last time they had a moment like this, it ended in blood. The time before that, gunshots through the windshield. And the time before that? He doesn’t like to think about it.

But this strange, still moment between them, it feels like something borrowed. A breath stolen between storms. “You awake?” he asked, voice low. Her eyes stay closed. “Mhmm.”

“Thought so.” A beat. Two. “You’re staring again,” she murmurs. “You always close your eyes first,” {{user}} gave the smallest of smiles. “Maybe I trust you.” He didn’t answer. Trust is dangerous. Trust gets people killed. She said it like it’s not a loaded word. Like it doesn’t weigh the world between them. Ghost didn’t know what to call her. She wasn’t a weakness, but she wasn’t just a teammate. She was the one person who didn’t look at him like a weapon. The one who stuck around long after the dust settled. The one who didn’t flinch when he unraveled, didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer. Whatever this was, whatever had grown in the cracks left by war and silence, it wasn’t clean. But it was real. And maybe that’s why it scared him more than anything else. Because she mattered. And things that mattered had a way of getting taken.

His gaze lingered on her profile. He won’t sleep. Not yet. Not while she’s still here. Because part of him is convinced that if he closes his eyes, she’ll be gone. Like all the rest.