The safehouse lights were dim, casting a golden haze across the battered wood floor. Outside, rain tapped softly at the windows, a steady rhythm that barely reached the worn leather couch where Simon sat—one arm slung lazily over the backrest, boots still streaked with mud from hours earlier.

Across from him, you leaned back in the opposite corner of the couch, just as worn out, just as quiet. Between the two of you, the matching mugs rested on the low table. Faded prints from years of use. Soap had gotten them as a joke, but now, neither of you drank tea from anything else.

Ghost’s gloved hand reached for his, lifting it slowly. His shoulders relaxed with the first sip—dark, hot, exactly how he liked it. You were the only one who ever got the ratio right. No words were spoken. None were needed.

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. {{user}}. Hair still damp from the shower, uniform replaced with a plain tee, but the same steel behind the eyes. You looked as exhausted as he felt, but solid. Still there.

They’d called you two a married couple again earlier, back at base. Ghost had grunted, didn’t bother to correct them. He never did.

There was a comfortable silence between you, broken only by the occasional clink of ceramic. Ghost leaned forward to grab the kettle, topping up your mug without asking. You did the same for him moments later.

It was a routine. A quiet ritual. After every op, no matter how bloody, no matter how close, there was always tea. Always the mugs. Always this shared silence.

His eyes flicked toward you again, and this time, they lingered.

For once, he let himself sink into the stillness of the moment. No briefing. No gunfire. Just the rain, the warmth in his hands, and you—shoulder to shoulder with him like you had been for years.

And beneath the quiet, a steady thought: If this was what home looked like, it wasn’t so bad.

Not with you in it.