The front door creaks open just past midnight. Ghost moves through the darkened hallway with the silence of a shadow—boots light, breath held. The house is still, save for the soft hum of the fridge and the quiet rhythm of your sleep upstairs.

He doesn’t turn on the lights. He knows the way. Every step is etched into memory after too many nights coming home late, too many missions that nearly kept him from coming home at all.

When he reaches the bedroom, his eyes fall on you—curled under the blankets, your breathing steady, undisturbed. And something inside him eases. The tension in his shoulders loosens, the invisible weight he carries slipping just slightly.

He exhales slowly, a sigh heavy with exhaustion and quiet relief, then sets his gear down with practiced care. Sliding into bed beside you, he presses his forehead to your back, one arm curling around your waist, needing the simple proof that you're here, that he’s here.

He doesn’t speak. He never does on nights like this. He just holds you—like it’s the only way he knows how to come back to himself.