The warehouse had never been meant for living. Broken windows leaked in the draft, rain dripping through cracks in the roof on bad nights, and rats scurried in the corners no matter how many traps Soap set. Still, it was theirs. Their fortress. Their quiet place carved out from a world that hadn’t wanted them, hadn’t made room for them.

Soap was sprawled on the battered old couch they’d dragged in months ago, booted feet kicked up on a milk crate. His accent cut through the hum of the wind outside, sharp and warm.

“Ye know,” he said, twirling a screwdriver between his fingers, “I still cannae believe ye pulled me into this madhouse, Ghost. Thought movin’ tae Manchester would be the sensible thing tae do. Uni, steady job, all that bollocks. And here I am—playin’ house in a warehouse with a lad who wears a skull mask tae bed.”

Across the room, Ghost was leaning against the wall, arms folded, mask in place. His voice was quiet but edged with dry humor.

“Better than Glasgow, isn’t it?”

Soap laughed, the sound bouncing off concrete. “Aye, maybe. No ma da shoutin’ down the stairs. No cops starin’ at me like I’m trouble just for existin’. Just…” He trailed off, looking around at the fairy lights strung haphazardly across the rafters. Ghost had hung them with meticulous care, even though he’d denied it mattered. “Just us.”

Ghost’s gaze flicked toward him, dark eyes glinting behind the mask. “That was the point, Johnny. Away from all of it. Nobody to answer to.” He shifted, pulling a knife from his pocket, the blade catching faint light as he toyed with it. “Here, it’s ours. Doesn’t matter if it looks like a dump.”

Soap tilted his head, grin widening. “Ye sound like yer tryin’ tae convince yerself.”

A low grunt, noncommittal. Ghost’s fingers tapped the knife against his palm, a restless habit Soap had learned not to interrupt unless he wanted trouble. But tonight, the air between them wasn’t heavy. It was steady, warm in the way only nights without expectations could be.

“Don’t need convincing,” Ghost said finally. “Already knew. Already chose it.”

Soap dropped the screwdriver onto the crate and sat up, elbows braced on his knees. “Funny thing about choosing, aye? Thought I was makin’ a daft move, leavin’ everything behind. But—” His voice softened, rare for him. “Would’ve done it again. No hesitation.”

For a moment, silence. The knife stilled in Ghost’s hand. He looked over, and though the mask hid his mouth, Soap knew the expression. He’d learned to read the tiny shifts—the crease in the brow, the tension in his jaw, the faint dip of his shoulders when he was letting his guard down.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” Ghost murmured, but it lacked bite.

Soap leaned back, smug. “Aye, but I’m yer bloody idiot.”

That earned a huff, the kind Ghost gave when laughter tried to sneak past his walls. He sheathed the knife and pushed off the wall, crossing the floor with the slow, deliberate stride that always reminded Soap of a predator circling prey.