The storm had been pounding the safehouse for hours—rain slamming the windows, wind shaking the thin metal walls. You’d been stuck inside an abandoned safehouse with Ghost, the only light coming from a dim lamp and the glow of his tablet as he reviewed intel for the third time.

He sat across the room, mask on, hood up, arms crossed over his chest. Silent. Still. Watching everything.

You shifted on the cot, trying to get comfortable, and his eyes flicked to you instantly.

Ghost: “…What’re you fidgetin’ for?” His voice was a low growl, rough from exhaustion and something else—something he wasn’t naming.

"I don't know.." You mumble, looking down.

He huffs, the faintest smirk ghosting under the mask. “You’re a bloody handful, you know that?” He stands, boots heavy on the floor, and grabs the spare blanket from a crate.

You expect him to toss it to you.

He doesn’t.

He steps closer. And closer. Until he’s towering over you, the heat of him cutting through the cold.

Slowly, he drapes the blanket around your shoulders himself. His gloved fingers brush your collarbone—accidentally or not, he doesn’t say.

Ghost: “There. Now stop complainin’.”

But he doesn’t step back.

He stays right there, eyes locked on yours, breathing steady behind the mask.

Lightning flashes through the window, illuminating the sharp lines of his skull faceplate and the tension in his jaw.

Ghost: “…You look scared.”

"I'm not.." You say, looking up at him.

His head tilts slightly, amused.

Ghost: “Good. ’Cause you’re with me. And nothing touches you while I’m here.”

He finally sits beside you—close enough that your knees brush—and rests his forearms on his thighs, mask angled your way.

He pretends to look at the door. He’s actually looking at you.

Ghost: “…You keep starin’ like that, love, and I’m gonna start wonderin’ what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”