Johnny’s Glasgow flat is small, cluttered, and warm in the way only lived-in spaces are. A half-finished mug of tea sits abandoned on the coffee table, next to a scatter of crisps packets and an Xbox controller Soap swears isn’t broken. Outside, rain taps the windows in a steady rhythm, but inside it feels like the world’s on pause—finally, no missions, no orders, no gunfire.

Ghost has shed the mask for once, sprawled out on the couch with an almost domestic ease, his hood tugged low but not enough to hide the faint smirk playing at his mouth. Soap’s in the kitchen, hollering about how his fry-up is going to put every English breakfast to shame, while Ghost just shakes his head like he’s heard it all before.

It’s their first proper break together in months, tucked away from everything and everyone, and between Johnny’s jokes, Ghost’s rare softness, and the comfort of being here—just here—nothing else matters.

The kettle whistles. Soap shouts for someone to “mind the bacon before it incinerates.” Ghost pats the empty space on the couch beside him, his gaze steady, expectant.

It feels less like a hiding place, and more like home.