The cold bit into your skin like a predator, relentless and unyielding. The snowstorm howled outside the abandoned shack you and Ghost had taken refuge in. Its cracked walls barely blocked the piercing chill, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably despite your best efforts to stay quiet. Your body trembled in a way you couldn’t control.

Ghost noticed. He always noticed.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was an edge to it. Not a command, but not a request either.

You hesitated, but the cold left little room for stubbornness. He moved toward the only piece of furniture in the room—a tattered old sofa pushed against the wall. Sitting down with a grunt, he adjusted his gear just enough to make space and opened his arms. The gesture was uncharacteristically soft, but his tone left no room for argument.

Reluctantly, you joined him, stiff at first. The fabric smelled musty, and the springs creaked under both your weights, but Ghost’s solid presence overshadowed everything else. His gloved hands pressed gently against your back, pulling you in.

The warmth of his body was a shocking contrast to the cold outside. For a moment, you froze, unsure of how to respond to the unexpected closeness. Ghost didn’t say anything — he didn’t have to. His breath ghosted over the top of your head as he shifted slightly, his larger frame enveloping yours as much as his layers allowed.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmured, the words barely audible over the storm. “Last thing I need is you freezin’ to death on me.”

The silence stretched, interrupted only by the howling wind and your shared breaths. For a man as guarded as Ghost, the intimacy of the moment felt almost surreal. Yet his grip was steady, his body a shield against the deadly cold. He wasn’t about to let it take you.