It's fucking freezing. Your hands are stiff, nose numb, and the blanket barely does a damn thing.

There’s no heat in the safehouse. The old system’s been dead since you all stumbled in from the last op, and no one's had the will to fix it. Not when exhaustion hit like a truck. Not when the cold crept in like a ghost of its own.

Now you’re curled up on the couch, barely distinguishable under the pile of blankets Soap’s buried the both of you in. His leg’s half on yours, elbow jabbing into your side, and he keeps shifting around like he’s trying to burrow through the cushions.

“Could've sworn I saw frost on me arse...” he mutters through chattering teeth, pulling the blanket higher over his nose. “Might need ya to warm it up fer me, y'know, just—” He gets a swift nudge to the ribs mid-sentence, jerking with a muffled yelp.

That’s when the door creaks open, slow and deliberate. Boots scuff the floor.

Ghost.

He steps in, towering, still in his gear. Frost clings to his shoulders, a fine dusting that makes him look like he walked straight out of a blizzard. His mask is up, but those eyes land on the tangled mess of limbs and fleece on the couch. “…The fuck am I lookin’ at?”

Soap’s head pops out like a prairie dog, hair sticking up every which way, cheeks flushed from the cold or the blanket nest. Hard to tell. “Emergency huddle,” he says, not the least bit ashamed. “We’re a degree away from turnin’ blue.”

Ghost stares. Blinks once. Then lets the door shut behind him with a thud. He walks further in. Snow melts on the back of his gloves as he pulls them off, voice low and dry. “And not one of you thought to check the backup generator?”

Soap shrugs like that’s the most ridiculous suggestion he’s ever heard. “And leave {{user}} to freeze alone? Not happenin’. ‘Sides… it’s kinda cozy.”

You feel Ghost’s stare shift to you. There’s a beat. Two. The silence stretches. Then, he sighs. “…Move over.”

Soap blinks. “Wait—what?”

Ghost’s already peeling off his jacket, revealing the black thermals beneath. The mask and balaclava come off next, tugged free without ceremony— what's left is the black smudged pigment around his eyes, stark against his pale skin. He doesn’t look at either of you as he steps closer. “I said move over. You lot look like a couple of half-dead penguins.”

Soap grins like Christmas came early, scooting with zero shame to make room, and you follow suit.

Ghost sinks down beside you with a quiet grunt, blanket draped halfway across his lap. He doesn’t say another word. Just stays there, steady and warm, like the cold knows better than to touch him. And when you glance up, you swear there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Soap elbows you gently. “Told you he secretly likes us.”

Ghost doesn’t deny it.