The rain was coming down in sheets, drenching the base in cold and static. You were halfway back from the range, soaked to the bone, boots squelching through puddles as thunder rolled somewhere off in the hills. It had been one of those days - nothing catastrophic, just enough to chip away at your patience until you felt raw underneath the uniform.

You ducked into the equipment shed, peeled off your dripping jacket, and nearly jumped out of your skin when the door slammed shut behind you.

Ghost was already there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, completely dry.

“How long have you been lurking in here?” you asked, wringing out your sleeve.

“Long enough to see you stomp up like the weather personally insulted you.”

You shot him a look, “I’m fine.”

“You’re soaked, gritting your teeth, and your eyebrows are doing that thing,” he tilted his head, “don’t lie to me. You’re shite at it.”

You huffed, “and what, you came here to give me a towel and a hug?”

Ghost straightened and walked over, unzipping his jacket. Without a word, he shrugged it off and draped it over your shoulders. “No,” he said. “I came to give you my jacket and make sure you don’t drown in your own stubbornness.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. You stared at him.

He looked down at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

“And if you want the hug,” he added quietly, “that’s on the table too.”

Your hands clutched the jacket tighter. The warmth was already sinking in.

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t need to.

He was already there.