The market had been your idea.

Ghost hadn’t argued, he rarely did when it came to you, but he hadn’t expected much from it either. Crowds weren’t his thing. Noise even less. Still, after years of missions that bled into holidays and holidays that never really existed, something about this winter felt… earned. A rare stretch of leave. No alarms. No radios crackling to life. Just Manchester, cold and loud and familiar in a way that tugged at something buried deep in his chest.

He’d grown up not far from streets like these. Different lights, different faces, but the same winter air that cut through coats and settled in the bones. He remembered being smaller, hands shoved into pockets that weren’t warm enough, pretending he didn’t mind the cold. Maybe that was why he’d let you drag him here without much resistance.

The square was alive in a way Manchester rarely allowed itself to be.

Lights stretched from building to building, gold against the dark, reflecting off wet cobblestones and shop windows. Christmas booths crowded the open space, sweets piled high, pastries dusted with sugar, steam rising from hot drinks that smelled like spice and warmth. A busker played something slow and familiar, the melody weaving through laughter and conversation.

Ghost stayed close to you out of habit.

Not tactical, not protective in the way it usually was, just close. Close enough that your sleeve brushed his coat now and then, close enough that he could lean down to murmur comments only you could hear. He’d ditched the skull mask for the night, scarf pulled up instead, breath warming the wool.

You drifted from booth to booth, stopping to admire trinkets and sweets like the cold didn’t exist. He bought things without a word. Candied apples. Pastries. Chocolate-dipped nonsense he pretended not to care about. You laughed every time he handed something over, calling him ridiculous.

He didn’t correct you.

The tree dominated the center of the square, huge, overdone, unapologetically bright. People clustered around it, taking pictures, clinging to each other like this one night could hold everything together. Ghost watched it all with quiet awareness, standing just behind you, the world feeling oddly soft around the edges.

When he steered you toward a quieter bench near the edge of the market, you didn’t question it.

You sat. He followed, setting the bags at his boots. The noise dulled there, distant and gentle instead of overwhelming. That’s when he noticed the small things, the way you tucked your hands into your sleeves, the subtle shiver you tried to hide, the stubborn tilt of your chin like you’d rather freeze than admit you were cold.

No scarf.

Ghost exhaled through his nose.

Without a word, he unwound his scarf and leaned in, draping it around you. When you flinched in surprise, he adjusted it with careful hands, tugging it closer until it sat right, warm and secure. Then he moved closer.

Close enough that the scarf wrapped around both of you, stretched between your shoulders, trapping heat where it mattered. His arm settled along the back of the bench behind you, not touching, but there, solid, unmistakable.

“You’re shiverin’,” he muttered quietly. “Don’t play tough with winter. It always wins.”

The wind cut through the square again, sharper this time, but it barely reached you now. The scarf held. So did he.

Ghost looked out at the tree, lights reflecting faintly in his eyes, breath slow in the cold air. For once, there were no orders waiting, no missions clawing at the back of his mind. Just the quiet bench, the shared warmth, and the realization that this, this, wasn’t something he’d known he was missing.

After a moment, his voice dropped again, rough but gentle.

“…S’not so bad, yeah? Bein’ out here. Bein’ normal.”