The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the wooden walls of your cabin. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, a constant rhythm that usually lulled you into peace.

You were curled up in a blanket, halfway through a book, when the door suddenly slammed open. A gust of wind swept in with the rain, and your heart jumped to your throat.

“Simon—?”

He stood there—Ghost—but barely.

His frame was soaked through, broad shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world had finally caught up with him. His breathing came in harsh, uneven pulls, his hand braced against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

You were already moving, catching him before he could hit the floor. His body was burning with fever, heat radiating through the drenched layers of clothing clinging to him. You didn’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around him and guiding him inside towards the couch, kicking the door shut behind you. His skin burned under your fingers. He didn’t resist. He never did with you.

His voice was hoarse, low and raw when he spoke.

“{{user}}… I… I don’t feel well…”

“You stubborn bastard,” you breathed, half-scolding, half-panicked. “You shouldn’t have come out in this—”

“Didn’t… didn’t know where else to go,” he mumbled, his words slurred and barely audible.

“You always have here,” you whispered.

From the first time you found him as a boy—bloody-nosed, scraped up, hiding behind the schoolyard fence—you’d learned that when Simon came to you like this, it was because he didn’t know where else to go.

You pulled the soaked jacket from his frame, hands moving with quiet familiarity. Towel, blanket, water—your body moved on instinct, the same way it always had.

He lay there, half-curled under the quilt, eyes fluttering open just long enough to look at you. There was something heavy in his gaze, deeper than the fever.

“I don’t deserve this…” he muttered, voice ragged. “Never did.”

The words weren’t for attention. They weren’t dramatic or sharp. Just honest. Bare. The kind of thing he only ever said when his guard was all the way down—which, in truth, only ever happened with you.

You sat beside him, brushing damp strands from his forehead, the back of your hand resting lightly against his skin.

“Been saying that since we were twelve,” you murmured, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips.

He didn’t reply. Just let out a quiet breath and leaned slightly into your touch, like it grounded him.

For a moment, the storm outside didn’t matter. The weight he carried didn’t matter. Here, it was just you and him—like it had always been.

And even though he thought he didn’t deserve any of it, he still came to you.

That was enough. It always was enough.