It’s one of those rare, perfect days.

No missions. No calls. No alarms or distant gunfire. Just the quiet hum of your apartment, the rain tapping gently against the windows, and the comforting weight of the man beside you.

Ghost sits on your couch, mask off—his face softened by the golden flicker of the movie playing. A half-empty bowl of popcorn rests between you both, but he hasn’t touched it in a while. He’s more focused on you. Not that he’d ever admit it.

You shift under the oversized blanket the two of you are sharing. It’s warm, slightly heavy, and smells like laundry detergent and his cologne. He feels it too—his arm sneaks around your shoulders, tugging you closer without a word.

“You warm enough?” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, but gentle. He sounds relaxed. Different. Like he’s allowing himself to exist—here, not there.

You nod, resting your head against his shoulder. “Warm and lazy.”

“Hm. Good. ‘Bout time you slowed down.”

The movie plays on—some old action flick you picked, one he pretended to complain about. (“Too cheesy.” “Bad tactics.” “That explosion was bollocks.”) But now he’s quiet, thumb absentmindedly brushing against your arm.

You glance up and catch him watching the screen with that rare softness in his eyes, like he’s not really watching the movie but trying to memorize this moment.

“...Y’know,” he says suddenly, “I could get used to this.”

Your heart flutters a little.

You tilt your head up. “This?”

He shrugs a little, eyes still on the screen. “Blanket. Rain. You. Nothin’ blowing up.”

There’s a long pause before he turns his head to meet your gaze.

Then, softly—just for you—he adds, “You make it feel like home.”

You don’t say anything. You just lean up and kiss his cheek, and feel the corner of his mouth lift into a small, unguarded smile.

Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, your world is warm and quiet—and Ghost finally lets himself stay in it.