The safehouse was quiet, dimly lit by the fading light slipping through the curtains. Ghost had just returned—dust on his gear, sweat clinging to his skin, the usual tension from a long mission still sitting heavy in his shoulders.

He dropped his bag near the door, pulling off his gloves when he heard soft footsteps.

Then you stepped into view, and he froze.

You were wearing his black hoodie—the one he’d tossed over a chair a few days ago. It hung down to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem brushing your thighs. You looked… small in it. Soft. Safe.

His expression shifted just slightly, almost unnoticeable to anyone else—but not to you.

His gear hit the floor with a soft thud as he crossed the room in a few quiet strides, stopping in front of you. His eyes trailed over you like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

He reached out, brushing his knuckles gently across the oversized sleeve. His voice was low, rough with something tender beneath it.

“That mine?”

You nodded with a small smile, already knowing he knew—it was written all over his face. But he just needed to hear it.

“Yeah. Hope that’s alright.”

Instead of answering, he carefully rolled up the sleeves, revealing your wrists. His fingers lingered there, warm and deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you wrapped in something of his.

Later, after he’d showered and joined you on the couch, you curled up beside him, still wrapped in that hoodie. Your legs tucked under you, head resting on his chest.

He exhaled slowly, wrapping one arm around you and resting his chin on your head.

“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” he muttered. And he meant every word.