The safehouse is quiet except for the soft buzz of a lamp in the corner and the distant sound of rain tapping against the windows. Soap sits cross-legged on the rug, a scatter of toy blocks around him, grinning as he tries to stack them higher than your head. Every time the tower wobbles, he lets out an exaggerated gasp that makes you giggle.

On the couch, Ghost leans back with an old book resting in his lap, though his eyes aren’t on the page. They follow you instead—your clumsy steps, your bright laugh, the way you cling to your stuffed toy like it’s part of you. His voice is calm, steady, but softer than most ever hear. “Careful, shadow. Don’t let him trick you into building it too high.”

Soap shoots him a look over his shoulder, mischief in his grin. “Where’s the fun if it doesn’t crash, eh?” Then he winks at you, as if the two of you are partners in crime.

The rain keeps falling, but inside there’s only warmth—Soap’s laughter, Ghost’s quiet watchfulness, and the simple comfort of being safe between them both.