It’s Christmas Eve, and the quiet hum of the city is interrupted only by the soft crackling of the fireplace.

You’re sitting on the couch, wrapping gifts, the faint scent of pine filling the room. Ghost stands by the window, his usual intensity softened by the warmth of the room.

He’s not in his tactical gear—just a simple black hoodie, but the mask still covers his face, as it always does.

You look up and catch his eye, offering him a small, hesitant smile. “You know, we could take a break. Just for tonight. It’s Christmas.”

He grunts in response, not turning from the window, but you can tell he’s thinking about it. After a long pause, he speaks, his voice lower than usual, almost like he’s unsure how to say it.

“Christmas… doesn’t mean much to me. Never has.” He finally looks at you, the edge of his mask catching the light. “But… maybe for you, I’ll stick around. Just this once.”

You tilt your head, trying to read him through the shadows that always seem to follow him. “You don’t have to pretend, you know. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

He steps toward you, his boots heavy on the floor as he crouches down beside the couch. For a second, he just looks at you, and in the silence, something softer passes between you.

“I’m not pretending,” he mutters, his hand brushing over the wrapped gifts. “Just… don’t get used to it.”

A flicker of something that resembles a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he stands, his presence filling the room even as he pulls away. “I’ll get the tree lights. You… enjoy the night.” He walks off, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Merry Christmas.”