#mfw2

The morning is quiet.

Soft light spills through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm, sleepy golden glow. You’re nestled beneath the blankets, curled into the space between Simon’s body and the mattress, your face tucked into a pillow, limbs tangled lazily with his. Lazy morning cuddling has always been a favored pastime for him. 

His arms are around you—one tucked beneath your head, the other draped protectively over your waist. You’re warm, drowsy, still not quite awake when you feel him shift slightly behind you.

A slow kiss brushes against the nape of your neck. 

You sigh without thinking, pushing yourself back against his chest and hips to get closer, eyes fluttering open as he does it again—gentle, careful, savoring the moment. His lips are soft, slightly chapped, his mask rolled up just enough to bare his mouth as he peppers light kisses down your neck to your collarbones, feigning innocence even as his hand ghosts over the plush skin of your ass and gives you a soft squeeze.

“Si…” You mumble lightly, practically purring for him. 

Simon hums, sliding his hand to your hip, pulling you just a little closer, holding you in place with subtle intent. Then you feel it—another kiss, a little firmer this time. Right at the crook of your neck. Then another. And another. 

You giggle, a quiet, sleepy sound. Music to his ears, he loves all the noises he can pull from you. 

“Simon, what are you doing?” you ask, your voice light with laughter. You try to turn your head on the pillow to look at him, but he gives you another gentle, but firm squeeze—keeping you pressed against him. You feel something hard pressing against the curve of your ass, another chuckle slips from your lips as he ruts his hips just slightly, the firmness of his morning wood unmistakable.

“Nothin’, pretty girl,” he murmurs into your neck. 

Then he kisses you again—slower this time, more deliberate. You feel the warmth bloom beneath your skin. A tiny little sting, lingering where his mouth doesn’t move away immediately. 

“Wait,” You say with a breathless laugh. “Was that… was that a hickey?”

He grins against your neck, moving lower to your collarbone, giving you another kiss before he flips you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head on the pillow. He hovers over you, caging you in, dark brown eyes drinking you in like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

‘Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and soft, as he dips down to trail butterfly kisses along your neck, down to your collarbone. “So damn pretty like this.”

He releases your wrists, one hand sliding down to your waist where he anchors you to him again. You thread your fingers through his hair, gently tugging him closer. He responds with a hum, planting a quick few kisses to your soft lips before drifting lower—over your sternum, down your ribs—before retracing his path back up to your neck. His lips find the soft curve beneath your jaw and linger there, slow and deliberate.  Then comes the slight nip of his teeth, followed by the soft drag of his tongue.

“Simon—” you breathe, arching just slightly beneath him, your back brushing the warm sheets, chest rising with a quiet inhale. His thumb rubs slow circles into the soft skin above your hip, grounding you, coaxing. 

His nose nudges along the line of your jaw, lips brushing against your skin in between the words he murmurs low into your ear. “Go on,” he breathes, voice low and deep, “Say my name again, love.” 

You blink slowly, pupils blown wide as you stare up at the ceiling, lips parted with the weight of unspoken need. “Simon,” you whisper, a quiet plea–hushed and reverent in the morning stillness.

“You say it so sweet,” he replies, tongue darting out again to soothe the newest bruise he’s left behind. “Y’gonna let me spoil y’this morning?” he asks softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Make you feel good before the world gets loud again?”

Your body answers before your voice can—your legs parting, hips tilting just enough for him to feel the dampness in between your thighs. Heat floods your cheeks, and you nod, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.

“Please,” you say, so softly it nearly disappears into his skin.

That’s all he needs.

Simon kisses your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Like you’re something fragile. Sacred. His lips meet your own—soft and sweet—his fingers hook into your panties, pulling them down with slow, practiced ease. 

“Anything you want, pretty girl.”

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Cw: Descriptions of absent + alcoholic mother, mentions of PTSD-related flashbacks, elder-child syndrome Word Count: 1960

The smell of cedar smoak and garlic clung to your hands and hair. A dull ache snaked its way up the back of your knees and into your thighs. Wringing your hands with a damp tea-towel you looked over your kitchen, the results of your labour tucked away in the humming oven and boiling on the stove top. Flour and spices swirled together across every vacant surface, oil-stained pots and bowls crowded your skink, and potato skins and egg shells were crowded in a pile across from the filled compost bin you were meaning to take outside to feed to your chickens. You puffed out a long breath, resting your wrists on your hips. You had finally finished all of the cooking for tonight's supper for your teammates. 

Your experience with cooking has been relegated to that of your small family. The distant memories of your aunts and grandmothers crowded in the same kitchen where you stood now, knives and peelers making quick work of the harvested meat and potatoes your farm had cultivated. It was the only thing you recalled as you struggled to discern the cramped handwriting of the recipes left behind by your family. Their jovial laughing and quick gaelic speak now distant memories carved into the cabinets and countertops. Smeared on the vintage china and cast iron skillets hung on the oak walls. If you stayed still and concentrated enough you could remember the feeling of your grandmother's rough palm on your supple cheek and her lips on your forehead. The smell of milk and wheat wafting through your senses. 

You were much younger then. Your fingers easily slipping onto the knife's blade and your wrists burned from boiling pasta water. You needed to use your baby sister's step stool to stand over the cutting board properly. Your mother was too busy passed out on the couch with a bottle of whiskey slipping from her limp grasp to worry about feeding her children. You were the eldest, therefore it became your job to try and emulate the effortless dance you watched your female relatives perform every holiday season or family reunion. 

Now you were quicker, easily controlling the tools in your scarred, tattooed hands. Your time in the military proved helpful in quickening your reaction speed, allowing you to cut through the squash and potatoes faster than before. You had begun the cooking process that morning, refusing the offered help from your teammates. Insisting that guests shouldn’t be expected to cook and that you could handle it. And you could, although it resulted in the ache in your thighs spreading into your lower back, causing a hushed groan to escape from your throat as you tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You quickly turned at the harsh thumping of boots on the creaking wooden stairs. Drawn out of your spiralling stupor. 

‘Holy.. smells fucking amazing in here lass..’ ‘Language! Johny!’ You say through clenched teeth, motioning to the living room couch where your baby sister was supposed to be sitting next to your captain. The volume of the football game on the TV turned down. Johnny winced in apology, hushing his booming voice to a whisper. ‘Sorry.. Sorry, here you go sit.. I’ll clean’ 

Johnny says after looking you over and taking the towel from your hands. Your team had gotten good at noticing when exhaustion or strain worked its way into each other's bodies. Your hunched shoulders and wide eyes giving away your building stress. ‘Oh Johnny no.. you don’t have too-’ ‘Yea.. yea, Go sit lassie.. After mak’in all this food I’m surprised you're still standing’ Johnny says ushering you to the living room before patting your shoulder and turning to find a starting point in the stack of dishes. 

You sigh. The instinct of obeying your higher ranking sergeant hadn’t seemed to wear off yet. Walking to the couch you expected to have your little sister squeal and jump into your arms. Only to find her little body curled against your captain’s side. Her hands bunched up under her chin, the delicate skin of her eyelids shut. Price’s head rested on the back of the couch with his arms stretched out over the cushions, his mouth slightly agape. You quietly leaned down to brush your sister's forehead, as if in response she snuggled her cheek against Price’s side at your touch, not wanting to be woken up just yet. Price twitched in his sleep, pulling Emi closer against him. You kissed the side of her head, pulling the knitted blanket up over her shoulders and across your captain's lap. The warm prick of relief spread across your skin at the realization that your baby sister had grown comfortable enough to fall asleep in the circle of your captain's embrace. Hoping that she had found someone other than you to admire and emulate.  

You made your way to the back porch, pulling on a leather overcoat to protect your warmth from the bite of the winter air. As you swung the glass door open, the brush of cold against your warm cheeks soothed you, your breath clouding up in front of you. You looked out onto the backyard of your farm, a few metres of blanketed gardening space trailing out to the fenced off cliff side. The clothesline pole used in the warmer months stood to the right, the cable attached to the house swinging in the swirling wind. The fence built to keep your cows and sheep and your sisters from roaming too close to the cliff edge poked out from the dull white snow. Past the drop of land, you could see the storm-grey waves churning and thrashing against each other like fighting children. Stretching further into the distance. You slowed your breathing and shut your eyes, trying to test if you could hear the water slap against the cliff side. When you were little, you would climb through the wire fencing and peer over the cliff's edge, never realizing how if you took only a few more steps death would embrace you like the waves embraced the fistfulls of grass and pebbles you would toss over the edge. Sometimes you wished you could return to that state of not even being afraid of falling from a cliff face. 

‘Hey.. Y/N?’ ‘Oh! Kyle.. shit you scared me!’ 

The jolt of surprise at Gaz’s voice ran up your spine and over your chest. In your daze, you didn’t realize Gaz settled on the porch's couch, a book from the living room shelf open in his lap. The deck held a few mismatched outdoor chairs and a couch, crowded with old throw pillows and spear blankets. Small metal lanterns hung overhead, painted and decorated by your sisters when they were both in primary school. The dwindling candle light gently swayed over Gaz’s smooth brown skin, a warm break from the multitude of grey stretching out before you. 

‘Heh sorry, here.. Sit. You look like you need a break’ Your boots scuffed against the deck floor as you settled yourself by Kyle. You tucked your legs up underneath you with a groan. The pain settling in your legs. You were still fixated on the blurred horizon line stretching beyond the haze of clouds that were beginning to roll in from the town harbour. Gaz’s presence beside you blurring like the apparent ending of the surrounding oceans. ‘Hey.. you alright?’ Gaz asked with the snap of his book shutting. ‘Yeah.. yeah of course.. Just, just thinking about.. Ya know, I mean… I-I just want things to be good for you guys’ You say, looking up at him. Folding your arms over your chest. ‘What.. What do you mean? Y/N.. things have been perfect, I honestly don’t know what else you could do to make this trip more enjoyable’ ‘I know.. I mean- I think, I don’t know Gaz.. I just worry that.. that this isn’t.. Ugh! I don’t even know what i’m saying’ You chuckle, gripping your head as you run a hand through your hair. Glancing at Gaz you notice him scratching the jagged scar on his forearm. 

It was during a mission in your last deployment that an enemy soldier split his skin open with a combat knife. Your stitches were frantic and clumsy, being that you were in the back of a moving helicopter for the evac and you had to watch the consciousness drain out of your friend's face. You noticed how as the cut started to heal Gaz would scratch at the scar absently, something that annoyed you being that it would remind you that the split wouldn't be so gnarled had you been able to keep your shaking hands steady.  ‘You really have no clue how to stop worrying..’

His tone was sad, grey like the ocean waters.

‘Worrying ‘bout you lot is my job.. It’s not something I can just.. Turn off’ You were frustrated, picking at the loose threads of the embroidered pattern lacing around your skirt. ‘I get that. I had that during my first break home, not being able to remember how to.. Ya know.. Be normal. To be a person and not a soldier. God, it would drive Ma mad, how I could only get up at five in the morning and.. Ya know.. The flashbacks’ You watched him as he talked, his rich brown eyes cast down at his hands. ‘There really isn’t a proper way to “be normal”, not after what you've been through, what you’ve seen. But that's not something you have to figure out on your own.. I mean hell, most of us would be dead if you weren't on this team Y/N’ ‘Ha.. I know’ ‘Exactly, what I mean is.. You've got people around you who would do anything for you. And we are probably the only ones who know what it’s like to be stuck in trying to remember who you were before deployment. It’s something we’ve all experienced, so don’t you believe for a second you should go through it by yourself.’ Gaz leaned forward, placing his hand on your knee. You instinctively took his fingers into your own, his hands cold. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, gently nodding your head. Your smile tight, trying to hold back the growing dampness in the corners of your eyes. You squeezed his hand, running your thumb over his knuckle. He squeezed your fingers back, a silent language you shared when words were too daunting to put together. You always found it shocking how this kind of comfort felt like it was being directed at someone else. Like it was a puzzle piece ripped in half, it could still fit in the piece but it appeared foreign. You weren't used to it, and how easily it appeared to flow from Gaz. In his words and in his viable willingness to help you. The unusual sensation of being understood made it hard to express your gratitude for it, Gaz knew this. Which is why you both sat there, in a shared understanding only the both of you as colleagues and friends could have. ‘You smell great by the way’

His blunt comment caused a ripple of laughter to fall from your lips, a tear drifting down the bridge of your nose. ‘You dick..’ You scoffed, leaning your head onto his shoulder, tucking your arm under his. 

‘Do aingeal den sórt sin’

You mumble, directing your attention back to the grey horizon line. ‘What does that mean..?’ Gaz asks, following your gaze outwards. You respond with a simple sigh. The stress and aching dissipated for the moment, something you didn’t want to risk losing with your supposed inability to properly thank Gaz for his tenderness and care.

You don’t talk much on the way home.

Your brother is mostly responsible for that—half-drunk and loud as he fumbles with his keys and tells some story about a blown tire on the highway he once had like it’s a war story. 

You and Ghost wait behind him as he fumbles with the lock, but Ghost gets impatient and takes out his own keys, telling your brother he’s got it and opens the front door. 

“That’s what makes you so great, man.” Your brother slurs a bit, patting Ghost’s back as he holds the door open for you and your brother to enter the house, “You’re always reliable, dependable even. Always there to save the day.”

You smile quickly as a thank you to Ghost as you enter behind your brother into the house, Ghost just nods at you, not saying anything. He enters after you, closing the door behind him.

Your brother grunts out something about needing water and having an early PT session tomorrow morning and disappears into the kitchen for a bottled water before heading for his bedroom. Leaving you and Ghost alone in silence.

You toe off your shoes slowly, casually. “Well. That was… something.” You walk into the living room, Ghost is pulling off his jacket, tossing it over the back of the armchair. “It wasn’t.” “Sure. Just your standard ‘back off, she’s with us’ moment.” You walk past him to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, your voice light and teasing. “Totally normal.”

He doesn’t respond right away. When you glance back, he’s just watching you from the living room, eyes unreadable in the dim light from the kitchen.

You take a long sip of water. “Do you make a habit of growling at strangers in bars?”

Ghost moves to the couch and sinks into it slowly, spreading his arms along the back like he owns the air around him. “Not often.”

You walk into the living room and stop beside the couch, setting your water glass down on the side table next to the couch. You cross your arms as you look at Ghost.

“You know,” you say quietly, “you could’ve let me handle it.” “I know,” he says simply.

“But you didn’t.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

You study him. “And again, how were you looking at me?”

He leans his head back slightly against the couch, eyes on you. Casual, easy. “Like someone who didn’t want to hear you say yes.”

That one lands harder than you expected.

You feel your heart pick up a little. You don’t reply right away, instead lowering yourself onto the other end of the couch, folding your legs up beneath you.

The silence stretches again. Still full, still heavy.  But something’s different now. A shared thread pulled taut between you.

You reach for the remote, flipping on something low—some late-night crime show neither of you are watching.

After a while, you ask, almost absently: “Was it really just about the way he looked at me?” Ghost doesn’t answer right away. Then finally: “No.”

That’s it. No elaboration. Just that one word. But somehow it’s more than enough.

You don’t push it. You just sit there, side by side, not touching—but closer than you were earlier in the night. You pull the throw blanket from off the back of the couch and drape it over your lap, offering him one side wordlessly. 

He doesn’t take it, but he doesn’t move away either.

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It’s too quiet.

He sits there, arms stretched across the back of the couch like it’s any other night. Like this is casual. Normal. It isn’t.

Not with you sitting two feet away, blanket drawn over your legs, your hair slightly tousled from the wind when you were all walking to the front door. Your feet are bare now—he hadn’t noticed you slip off your socks until he looked down.

He shouldn’t notice things like that. Shouldn't keep noticing.

He shifts, just slightly, eyes flicking to the glow of the TV. You’re watching some late-night crime show neither of you care about, and you’re pretending to focus on it like it matters. Like you didn’t just throw that look at him back at the bar. Like you didn’t just ask him that question with your arms crossed and your chin tilted up like you wanted a fight. “And how were you looking at me?”

Ghost clenches his jaw, the muscle ticking. Too long. Too hard.

He doesn’t know why he’s still out here. Why he hasn’t gotten up and gone to bed. You’re fine. You’re home. No threat in sight.

But instead, he’s sitting here. Watching you out of the corner of his eye. Listening to every sound you make—the soft clink of your glass when you set it on the coffee table, the shifting of the blanket when you tuck it higher up under your legs.

You hadn’t flinched when he stepped in at the bar. Hadn’t acted scared. You can handle yourself, sure. You’re not weak. He knows that.

But he still hated the way that guy looked at you. Like you were an open invitation. Like you were anyone’s to take.

Ghost leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees now, hands hanging loosely between his knees. The show flickers in front of him, lighting the living room in soft, pale blue. You’re quiet, but not asleep. He can tell from the way your breathing’s still a bit uneven.

She doesn’t have to, he’d said.

He didn’t mean to say that. Didn’t mean to say any of it. And that “careful” line? Too much. But it slipped out before he could pull it back.

 It always does with you. Things slip. Edges show. He slips.

That’s the part that bothers him most.

It’s not just attraction. Not just instinct. That would be easier for him to deal with—something physical, something basic. It’s you. The way you make yourself at home.The way you take his things—the way he wants to give you more. The way you think out loud, or hum when you’re focused. The way you make him want to listen.

You move just slightly. Your eyes are still on the screen, but you’re aware of him. He can feel it.

And that’s the worst part. He likes that you’re aware of him. That you notice when he’s looking. That maybe… you want him too.

His hands tighten slightly on his knees now. He sits a little straighter, tells himself it’s nothing. 

But when you yawn softly and lean into the couch a little more, blanket wrapped tighter, he doesn't move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches the slow rise and fall of your shoulders, watches you blink slower and slower, fighting off sleep.

He tells himself he’s staying out here in case you fall asleep and need someone to shut the lights off.

That’s all. But the truth hums louder than the TV:

He’s not tired. He just wants to be near you.

And that thought?

That’s the one he buries the deepest.

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You shift again.

Not much. Just a small movement, like you’re adjusting the blanket—but now your shoulder’s closer to his. Inches. Barely that.

Ghost doesn't move. Doesn’t even breathe too deeply.

He feels it—you—like a magnetic pull just beneath his skin. You’re warm and quiet and slowly blinking like you’re teetering on the edge of sleep. One more commercial break and you’ll be out cold.

He should get up. Leave you on the couch. Do the decent thing, turn the lights off, make sure you’re comfortable and leave you alone.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his gaze flicks to the side again. He watches your profile in the pale light. The soft curve of your cheek. The slope of your jaw. There’s a faint smudge of your mascara beneath your eye that you didn’t catch earlier. Your lips part slightly on your next exhale.

He looks away. Forces himself to look at the TV.

Breathe normal. Keep your hands where they are.

But then your head dips, just a little—tipping towards him.

Ghost’s heart doesn’t race. He’s trained for worse. But it shifts. He feels it thud, slow and deep. A dull weight in his chest. Like something anchoring him in place.

You catch yourself, barely. Your head jerks up for a second, and you blink sleepily, a soft sound escaping your throat—half apology, half laugh.

“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily, “didn’t mean to… drift.”

He grunts quietly, doesn’t trust himself to use his voice.

But you stay where you are. Still too close. That faint warmth of your shoulder just brushing his sleeve now. Still not touching. Not quite.

“I can move,” you murmur after a few seconds, sleep overtaking you, “Give you more room.” You don’t move and neither does he.

His voice comes out low, rougher than usual. “You’re fine.” The silence that follows isn’t silent at all. It’s loaded. Thick with everything unsaid.

He thinks about how easy it would be to shift—just barely—to close the space between you. To let your head rest against his shoulder. To let himself feel the weight of it. Of you. 

But he doesn’t. Not tonight.

Because if you lean on him, if he lets you fall asleep there—he’s not sure he’ll want to let you go. 

So he stays frozen. Every inch of him taut. Controlled.

But when your shoulder rests a little heavier against his for just a second–so light it might be unintentional—he doesn’t pull away.

And when your eyes finally close, when your head and shoulder fully fall onto his own, and your breathing deepens, he just sits there in the low blue flicker of the TV light… Still. Quiet. And completely, absolutely undone.

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Fuck. That’s the only thought he can muster for a few minutes as he lays stretched out on the couch with his best friend’s sister. His eyes drift from staring at the ceiling to looking at you curled up on his chest sound asleep. Like a goddamn angel. 

He didn’t mean to let it get this far. Let you lean in. Let your body rest fully into his. Let his arm wrap around your waist without thinking. Without calculation. 

Originally, you had only fallen asleep against his shoulder, and he meant to get up then–to leave you alone on the couch and shut the lights off. He should be in his bed, not here with you. It was too much for him though. The quiet softness of watching a lousy late night tv show, of the simple conversations,  the calm his mind had experienced for once.

No gunfire. No boots on gravel. No radios hissing. Just warmth and steady breathing. Somewhere, somehow, you had become a foxhole for peace in his psyche. 

He raises his arm to check his watch, 2:13am. He slowly drags his hand down his face, a bit in exasperation and ‘what have I done?’. The real problem is that he didn’t really care what your brother would think, he was selfish in that regard. Or, maybe your brother was selfish for trying to forbid his squadmates from being with his sister. He preferred that thought. Made the small guilt he was feeling easier to swallow—to ignore. He knew he should move. He should’ve moved the second your head tipped toward his shoulder… when you drifted closer and he could smell your shampoo in your hair. But he didn’t, because some part of him—some fucked-up, starved part—wanted to see how far you’d go, how long you’d stay like this.

He told himself it was only just for a minute—just until you drifted off. Just until you rustled away in your sleep. You never did.

You melted against him like you were made for the shape of him. And he—fucking idiot that he is—let you stay.

Worse than that? He let himself fall asleep too.

The thoughts of how it all began make something tighten low in his chest. He shifts slightly from the tv remote digging into his side–only to realize your hand is still resting lightly at the hem of his shirt, fingers curled there like you reached for him in your sleep. Like you didn’t mean to let go. It’s then he also realizes his other hand is currently resting at your waist, fingers splayed lightly like he forgot to let go.

His pulse stutters.

You breathe in softly, then exhale slow and even against him as you nuzzle your cheek into his chest more, and he doesn’t dare move. Not when you feel like this—warm, soft, and close. Your body against his, like gravity pulled you there. Like you belong there. It’s stupid. Reckless. You’re his roommate’s sister. Don’t give a shit, another part of him thinks.

Ghost feels you shift slightly, breathing changing just a little–light now, aware. You’re about to wake up. He should take the moment to leave, to let you sleep alone. Instead, he takes one last glance at how you look sleeping on him—turns the tv off quickly, subtly— before deciding to close his eyes, and drift back off to sleep. Consequences for the morning. 

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You don’t remember the moment sleep took you. Just the weight of the blanket on your lap as you got comfortable on the couch. The soft, low hum of the tv. The warmth of the living room. The warmth of Ghost when you leaned on his shoulder. You wake up slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. You check your phone to see what time it is, 2:48am. You shift slightly and immediately freeze. Something feels different. Heavier. Solid. Your head isn’t on a pillow–it’s on him. Your breath hitches. You’re tucked in against Ghost’s chest—warm, solid. His arm is around you. His hand—God, his hand—is resting at your waist, fingers splayed lightly on your lower back. You move your head the tiniest fraction upwards so you can glance at him. He’s still wearing his mask—pulled down just far enough to show the line of his mouth. His lips are parted slightly. Relaxed. Asleep.

Your heart is suddenly too loud in your chest as the memories of earlier come flooding back to you. How he didn’t move when you leaned into him. Your mind races further as you feel your cheeks heat up slightly; the look he gave you in the bar. About that moment in the kitchen, the hoodie, the shirt, the way his eyes lingered over your body. You should move. You should untangle yourself from him, push away and sleep on your own side of the couch, pretend this never happened. But instead—you breathe in. His scent is all around you, not just his laundry detergent, cologne, and clean soap smell. But also pine and leather, that low, warm him-smell that’s been lingering on everything you’ve borrowed since you arrived.

And underneath all that, you hear it. His heartbeat. Steady. Unrushed. You move yourself just slightly, slow and careful. Not pulling away—just enough to nestle your face more into his chest, his heartbeat like a lullaby as you let your eyes fall shut again. Feeling the soft tug of sleep like a sweet caress in your mind. You’re not ready to let this moment go just yet, even if it ruins everything in the morning.

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The Sunday morning sunlight filters through the living room curtains, casting pale golden stripes across the couch where you’re slowly waking up from sleep. Ghost is in the kitchen. You hear him before you see him—the quiet clink of a mug being set down, the soft sound of water running from the sink faucet. No music. No talking. Just the normal morning sounds of a man with his routines.

You wait a minute before pulling yourself up and out of the blanket that’s draped over your body, brushing sleep from your eyes. You feel a shiver from the air conditioner kicking in and grab the black jacket from the back of the armchair—his again—and pad towards the kitchen.

Ghost doesn’t look up right away. He stands at the counter, back to you, pouring water into the coffee machine. You’re a little disappointed to see he’s wearing a black t-shirt and not shirtless as usual, but nonetheless admire how it stretches across his shoulders. 

“Morning,” You say around a yawn. “I survived the couch, just barely.” You lean against the doorframe of the kitchen to watch him. You weren’t really sure what to say, honestly, wanting to acknowledge the night before but also wondering if it was a terrible idea.

He doesn’t turn to face you, but his shoulders tense just slightly at the sound of your voice. “Couch was fine.” He says, calm and clipped.

“For you, maybe,” you retort, stretching slightly and cracking your back. “My spine feels like it got hit with a crowbar.” It was a lie, last night was some of the best sleep you’ve had in a while.

“Shouldn’t sleep like a pretzel, then.” He responds passively, starting the coffee maker. You frown slightly, wanting him to crack and acknowledge everything first, but decide to be the bigger person.

You snort with a cheeky grin accompanying your next move. “Yeah, well, hard to sleep when your pillow’s made of Kevlar and bad decisions.” 

That gets him. Mission accomplished. There’s a pause. He finally turns around and leans against the counter, taking notice of his jacket on you. A glint passing through his eyes.

“Didn’t hear you complainin’,” he murmurs, giving you an unimpressed eyeroll.

Your grin sharpens, feigning indifference. “I was unconscious.” “You were drooling on me.” Your jaw drops. “Liar.” “I’ve got evidence,” he says, lifting a hand to gesture vaguely at his chest, “Wet patch, slightly right side. Disgusting.” he finishes with a sarcastic tone.

“Ghost. You wound me.” You feign offense, giving a dramatic flare with your hand to your heart. He doesn’t rise to the bait, instead turning around to refill his mug with coffee.

You push off the doorframe and step beside him at the counter, peering into the coffee pot as he sets it back down like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. After a few beats you finally speak up. “I remember waking up on top of you.” You say casually, but your heartbeat picks up pace in the acknowledgment.

He doesn’t look at you. “I remember you didn’t move.” he tosses back. “You were warm.” you respond in slight defense, pouring yourself some coffee as you try to maintain the act of looking busy. Like you weren’t really just here because you wanted to discuss last night.

“So were you.” Ghost mumbles, giving you a sidelong glance now. Sharp. Measured. “And you’re wearing my jacket.” he adds, taking in how it looks on you. You tug at the sleeves like it proves a point. “You left it out. That’s called implied consent.” He grins under his mask at that. You can tell by the way his eyes squint ever slightly from it. “You’ve been stealin’ my shit all week.” He exhales slowly. “I like the smell,” you say innocently. He nearly chokes on the sip he takes from his mug, eyes locking onto yours as he sets it down with a heavier-than-necessary thud against the counter. “You what?” he says flatly, voice pitched lower. “I like the smell,” you repeat, slower this time, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You sip your coffee like you’re not aware of the implications your words have.

Ghost stares. The kind of look that feels like it could strip paint—or maybe peel you back layer by layer, slow and deliberate. His eyes drop again to the way the jacket hangs onto you, like the hoodie–it practically swallows you. The sleeves hanging over your fingers, the collar loose against your collarbone. And his silence stretches too long to mean nothing. You give him a faux-sweet smile, “Relax. It’s not like I’m building a shrine or anything.” He tilts his head. “Could’ve fooled me.” You gasp, as if scandalized. “You think I’m that obsessed with you?” He shrugs. “I think you keep findin’ excuses to touch all my stuff.”

“Maybe your stuff keeps finding its way to me.”

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek—restraining a smirk, maybe a retort. You can’t tell. You go on, unable to help yourself from pushing him further. “You know, Freud would say that’s a subconscious intimacy thing.” Ghost lets out a soft, scoffing sound—more amused than annoyed. “Y’quotin’ Freud at me now?”

You lift a finger. “Psych 101. I’m practically an expert.” you wink teasingly at him. “I bet you’re a nightmare in lectures.” “I’m charming in lectures.” “Right.”

The smile you give him is all teeth and zero remorse. He turns slightly away from you, picking up his mug again, trying to act unaffected. He doesn’t walk away though, nor does he end the conversation. He stands right there, close enough that your arms could bump if either of you moved wrong. Or right.

You soften a little, letting your teasing drop just an inch, contemplating whether to admit your inner thoughts or keep them to yourself. You decide the former. “I did sleep better last night than I have since being in my dorm.” You say gently.

That pulls his attention again. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. “Yeah?” He asks, quiet. “Yeah,” you nod, “Guess the couch isn’t so bad when you’re basically a human space heater.”

Ghost huffs through his nose, lowering his gaze to the rim of his mug. You wonder if he’s hiding a smile, or something else.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” you add after a second, more honest now. “I would’ve moved if you woke me.”

“You didn’t bother me.” The reply comes fast. Too fast.

You blink. He’s still looking down. Still pretending to be interested in his coffee. But you catch it now—the little flex of his fingers around the handle. The way his voice dipped a half-note lower. Like something slipped.

You swallow the thickness in your throat and nod slowly. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full.

“You stayed out there the whole night?” You ask, your voice light, like you don’t want to spook him and ruin the moment. He nods once. “Didn’t wanna leave you alone.” There’s a long pause between you. You glance up at him through your lashes. “Well,” you murmur, "chivalry’s not dead after all.”

He snaps his eyes back to you, and this time he doesn’t look away. Neither do you. The room feels smaller now. Warmer. The air thins, heavy with everything neither one of you is saying—admitting. Ghost’s gaze drops to your mouth for half a second—blink-and-miss-it-fast—but you catch it and your breath catches in your throat because he’s still there. Still looking.

He leans forward slightly, just enough to make your heartbeat stutter. You lean your hip against the counter, trying to play it casual, only inches between you both now. Your fingers tighten slightly on your mug, a nervous thrill shooting through you.

“I should probably—” you begin softly, but your voice trails off when his eyes flicker to yours again. You don’t finish the sentence, and he doesn’t say anything either. Instead, he sets his mug away slowly. Deliberate. Like he doesn’t want to startle the moment, ruining it.

Your pulse is drumming in your ears now. You’re not even sure what you’re doing until he’s close–closer–and you tilt your head just slightly towards him. His hand comes up—slow, cautious–and for a breathless second, you think he’s going to touch your jaw. His fingers hover near your cheek, like he’s asking for silent permission.

Your breath catches, parting your lips slightly. His eyes dart to your mouth again, he leans in, so do you. Your eyes fluttering closed, anticipating how his lips will feel, how he’ll taste, if the kiss—

“Why the fuck is it so goddamn cold in here? Did one of you touch the thermostat again!?” Your brother’s voice slices through the kitchen like a gunshot. Ghost straightens instantly, hands down at his sides and steps away quickly to the kitchen table, appearing casual as he sips from his mug, eyes dark with want as he looks at you before slipping back into a facade of neutrality. You yank back like you touched a live wire, turning sharply toward the counter, pretending to be deeply, desperately interested in your coffee mug.

Your brother stumbles into the kitchen in nothing but old sweatpants and a confused squint, scratching at his stomach. 

Ghost clears his throat. “Mornin’.” Your brother grunts, opening the fridge. “You guys been up long?”

“Nope,” You say, voice high-pitched, tight, and clearly lying. “Just got here. Drinking coffee. Ghost made it—so be warned. It’ll go down, but y’know, brits’ speciality should stay tea.”

Ghost makes a small strangled noise like he’s choking on air. A quick side-eye shot your way of offense being taken.

Your brother laughs, looking over at him. “Y’gonna just take that, huh?” He pulls out a carton of orange juice from the fridge and keeps talking. “Might be going out later.” your brother mutters, drinking straight from the carton like a caveman. “You guys wanna do something for dinner?”

“Sure,” you say automatically, eyes still locked on your mug like it contains the secrets of the universe. You sneak a glance at Ghost. He’s already looking at you. Something sharp in his gaze now. Something unsettled. Whatever almost happened wasn’t just you imagining it. And now, it’s hanging there between you, thick and heavy in the air. Unspoken.

But very, very real.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧*✧･