The safe house is quiet.

Faint light bleeds through weathered blinds, casting long shadows against gray walls. The radiator hums—an inconsistent, failing heartbeat in an otherwise motionless room. Everything here feels temporary, meant for passing through, yet here you are. Weeks.

Ghost leans against the far wall, arms crossed, half watching the silent radio, half watching you.

"If you keep staring at it, maybe it’ll magically start working."

You exhale, leaning back against the creaking chair.

"Just trying to summon orders out of thin air."

He huffs—something close to a laugh, but not quite.

That’s how it’s been. Long stretches of quiet, broken only by sarcasm and unspoken understanding. You’ve spent enough time together now that words aren’t always needed—but maybe, just maybe, that makes the silence worse.

The walls feel smaller. The waiting stretches thinner.

And in between tactical briefings and shared meals, between routine movements and the tension of proximity—something lingers, slow and steady, neither of you naming it.

Yet.