The front door creaked open before your key even hit the lock. Someone had been waiting.

Ghost stood in the hallway—well, Simon now, no mask, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, arms crossed, face unreadable. The low light cut across the scars on his jaw, half-hidden under messy, damp hair. His boots were still muddy. Probably just got back from base. Probably hadn’t slept.

Johnny’s voice came from the kitchen, humming some old rock tune off-key, the smell of burnt toast trailing behind it.

Simon’s eyes landed on you. “You’re late,” he said flatly, but there was no edge. Just concern in disguise. “Next time, you text. Don’t care if it’s one in the bloody mornin’. You text.”

And then, just like that, he moved aside to let you in, a large hand briefly ruffling your hair like you were five again. Johnny popped his head around the corner, blue eyes lighting up. “Oi! There’s our wee troublemaker,” he grinned, face smudged with flour. “Didn’t burn the whole house down while we were gone, eh?”

Simon sighed. “Not for lack of tryin’, probably.”

You heard the clink of dog tags under his hoodie as he stepped past you, muttering something under his breath about “teenagers and bloody curfews.” Johnny just laughed and threw an arm around Simon’s waist, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. The sight was so normal, so familiar, you almost didn’t notice how fast Simon’s expression softened.

Almost.

“C’mon then,” Johnny said, already heading back to the kitchen. “We saved you the last slice. Don’t tell me you ate already—‘cause I’m not sharin’ my biscuit.”