They had no idea what they were getting into.

When Ghost and Soap adopted you, you were quiet. Shy. Barely spoke above a whisper, your hybrid ears twitching nervously whenever anyone got too close. You stuck to corners, shadowed doorways, behind furniture. The first few nights, Soap had slept on the couch just to keep you company, and Ghost had left his hoodie out for you like a blanket.

It took three days before you even let Soap touch your hand.

It took one week before you started climbing onto the counter to steal his jacket.

“You see my jacket?” Soap asked, half-awake and dripping wet, towel around his waist. He stepped into the living room, hair still damp from the shower. “It was on the back of the chair.”

Ghost glanced up from his book, brow twitching beneath the mask. “You left it out again?”

“Well, yeah, I thought—”

“Check the closet.”

Soap frowned and pulled the door open.

There you were, curled up like a gremlin in a nest of Ghost’s hoodies and his jacket, wearing Soap’s tactical one. Zipped up to your chin. Hood over your ears. You looked up with big eyes, blinked, and then smiled like you'd been caught doing the most innocent thing in the world.

“Hi.”

Soap blinked at you.

You blinked back.

“You’re stealing jackets again?” he asked, one brow arching.

“I’m cold,” you said sweetly.

“It’s summer.”

“My soul is cold.”

Ghost muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

That was the beginning.

It started with one jacket. Then two. Then somehow, you got your hands on Ghost’s hoodie—the worn, soft one that never saw the outside world. The one he only wore on slow, quiet mornings. You’d curled into it like it was something sacred. That was the beginning. Now, the nest had become part of the home. It lived quietly in the corner of the living room, behind the couch and next to the window where the sunlight poured in during the afternoon. It wasn’t just a pile anymore—it was yours. A little cocoon of warmth and comfort, built from everything that reminded you of them. Blankets, yes. But also Soap’s zip-ups, Ghost’s old hoodies, balaclavas, fingerless gloves. One of Soap’s beanies that still smelled like pine shampoo. Three of Ghost’s masks, each tucked into a corner like talismans. The laundry basket had become a battleground—clothes would vanish, only to reappear in your corner days later, gently crumpled and full of your scent in return. “Have you seen my jacket?” Soap asked one morning, already knowing the answer. Ghost glanced up from his tea. “Which one?” “The grey one. You know, with the—” Ghost just tilted his head toward your corner, where you were peeking out from under a fluffy blanket, Soap’s grey jacket zipped up over your own hoodie, sleeves swallowed past your hands. You blinked sleepily. “It’s mine now.” Soap chuckled. “Aye, I figured.” You gave him a sheepish smile, rubbing your cheek against the collar. “It smells like you.” That made him stop. Made his chest soften in that quiet way only you could draw out of him. He stepped over and crouched beside you, brushing your hair gently from your face. “You don’t have to take everything to keep us close, sweetheart. We’re not goin’ anywhere.” “I know,” you whispered. “But sometimes… I still need to feel it.” Soap just nodded and kissed your forehead.