The rain hadn’t stopped in thirty eight hours. Outside the safehouse, the world was grey and blurred, trees swaying under a steady curtain of water. Inside, the air was warm but tense because Ghost couldn’t sit still. He paced the narrow living room, mask on, gloves on, shoulders squared like he was waiting for orders to fall from the ceiling. He’d checked his gear three times already, field stripped his rifle and was now sharpening one of his knives with short, meticulous motions. Each rasp of metal on stone seemed to snag the quiet.

{{user}} watched him from the sagging couch, chin propped in her palm. She knew him well enough to see the tight coil behind his movements. Ghost didn’t know how to be when there wasn’t something to fight. Stillness made him uneasy, as though the quiet itself might ambush them. But she liked the rain. She liked this pause, this bubble of time where they weren’t soldiers or enemies or reluctant allies. Just two people sharing space. And she wanted him to experience that, even if he didn’t think he could. So while he muttered something about “wasted time” and disappeared to check the perimeter again, she quietly began her counteroffensive.

She gathered every spare blanket she could find, layering them into a nest near the window. Pillows stolen from the bedroom and the sofa. She draped a quilt over two chairs to make a low roof, fairy lights tucked along the edge to cast a soft amber glow. By the time Ghost returned, dripping rain from the hood of his jacket, she was curled inside her makeshift fort with a steaming mug of tea, a half finished crossword on her lap. His bootsteps stopped just inside the door. “The hell is this?”

“A ceasefire,” {{user}} said simply, not looking up from her crossword. “Sit down. Try relaxing. I dare you.” He exhaled through his mask. “Not happening.” “Mmhm,” she hummed, turning a page. “You keep pacing like that and I will throw a pillow at you.” There was a long silence. A drip of water hit the floor from his jacket cuff. He didn’t move. Then he sighed, resigned, and peeled off his gear. One layer at a time, each thunk of weight on the table sounded like surrender. He crossed the room and crouched at the edge of the blanket fort, still massive and imposing even in soft light. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “Yes,” she agreed, smiling faintly. “Come in.”

When he finally settled beside her, he sat like a man who’d forgotten how, straight backed, watchful. But as the rain deepened and the movie droned on, the taut lines of his shoulders softened. He rolled his mask just enough to sip the tea she pressed into his gloved hands. When she nudged her knee against his, he didn’t move away. Eventually he slouched, boots crossed at the ankles and let his head tip back against the wall. A sigh escaped him, soft, slow, unguarded. {{user}} had to hide her smile behind her mug. There was something strangely delicate about seeing him like this, stripped of sharp edges. Ghost wasn’t fragile, he could never be but this was precious. Private. The side of him that no one else got to see, maybe not even himself.

She set her mug aside and stretched out on her side, careful to leave a sliver of space between them. He glanced down at her, one brow twitching faintly. “Getting comfortable, are we,” he murmured, voice low and dry. “Trying to,” she said, tucking the blanket under her chin. {{user}} let her hand settle near his on the blanket, not touching, just there and toyed with a loose thread. “You don’t have to stay on guard all the time,” she said quietly. “Someone should,” Ghost replied, though softer than before. “Then I’ll wake you if something happens.”

That earned her a long look from behind the mask. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, then faded. He gave a small grunt, half skepticism, half reluctant acceptance and let his head tip back against the wall. Thunder rumbled far away and gradually, his breathing slowed, shoulders sinking as the fight drained out of him. His chin dipped, the edge of the mask shadowing his face as he drifted toward sleep.