Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You arrive late, as always. He still manages to arrive after you anyway, as always. And like always, he has opened up the conversation with some numpty idea.

"So that’s your solution?" you interrupt him as soon as his cloudy explanation comes to an end.

"It’s an administrative one."

You raise a hand slightly.

"It’s insane. I want to be very clear that I think you should never be allowed near civil systems again."

That earns an expression of fake outrage from him that makes you smile but it fades quickly. You’re still processing, logistically speaking. It's not about being offended or shocked, you have to calculate, seriously.

***

Ghost finds Soap where he usually does when he’s avoiding paperwork: half-leaning against a corridor wall near the barracks exit, coffee going cold in his hand, looking like he’s got nowhere urgent to be and nowhere he particularly wants to go. Ghost knows this is exactly in those moments that Soap is at his most dangerous.

"Lt," Soap greets when he sees him. "You look like shite."

Ghost stops in front of him.

"I’m fine."

Soap’s mouth twitches.

"That means you’re either lying or about to do something stupid."

Ghost doesn’t answer that. He just exhales through his nose, probably deciding whether this conversation is worth having at all. Soap notices immediately the particular weight that pause holds behind it.

"What’s going on?"

Ghost glances down the corridor once, habit more than caution, then steps closer so his voice doesn’t carry.

"I need out of barracks housing."

Soap blinks once.

"…Right."

That’s not what he expected. Ghost continues anyway, flat and unperturbed.

"Doesn’t work anymore."

Soap studies him for a moment longer than necessary.

"You’ve been fine with it for years."

"Hm."

"That’s not an answer."

Ghost’s jaw tightens slightly.

"It’s not working anymore."

There it is again : he’s not explaining himself, no emotion leaks through either. It’s just final. Soap shifts his weight.

"You looking to rent off-base then?"

Ghost hesitates half a second but that’s enough for Soap to catch it.

"Or something else?" He presses.

When Ghost replies, it’s even more controlled than usual.

"I don’t want complications."

Soap huffs a quiet laugh.

"Nothing about living anywhere is complication-free, mate."

Ghost’s eyes flick briefly to him.

"You know what I mean."

Soap goes a bit quieter in understanding.

"You want quiet. Stability. No questions."

"Hm."

"And I’m guessing you don’t want anything that ties you down to paperwork hell either. No reapplying every year and such."

Ghost doesn’t deny it. That’s confirmation enough. Soap studies him more carefully now.

"Right," he says slowly. "So you need a workaround."

Ghost’s gaze sharpens slightly, at which Soap holds up a hand.

"Not saying I’ve got one yet. Just thinking out loud."

Ghost turns slightly as if to leave.

"You’re wasting my time."

"Yeah, yeah, hang on."

Soap straightens properly now, his attention fully on him.

"You’re not the only one I’ve heard moaning about housing this week."

Ghost pauses while Soap continues thinking out loud.

"My lass…"

Ghost’s head turns instantly at that, frowning behind his balaclava.

"Not like that," Soap adds quickly. "Relax. I mean the academic one, from Edinburgh."

Ghost doesn’t relax, making Soap sigh.

"She’s in a similar mess. Ending grant. Temporary housing situation. Student flat-sharing. It's driving her mental from what I gathered."

Ghost doesn’t move. Soap watches him carefully.

"She said she needs stability. Medical stuff too, yeah?"

Ghost’s expression shifts slightly at that. Soap tilts his head at he sees as an opening.

"And you need out of barracks. You two are basically solving each other’s problem without realising it."

Ghost doesn’t answer but something in his posture has gone very still. Soap presses on, now fully in it.

"She needs stable housing. You need stable housing. You both need less admin nonsense."

Ghost finally speaks.

"That’s not how it works."

Soap shrugs.

"Why not?"

Ghost’s eyes narrow slightly so Soap keeps going before he can shut it down.

"I’m serious. You’re both in overlapping systems already. Medical, military, bureaucracy, half of it doesn’t even know how to categorise you properly."

Ghost exhales slowly.

"Soap."

"Just listen."

Soap steps closer now, lowering his voice slightly.

"You make it simple. Clean. One household. One address. Done."

Ghost’s expression hardens a fraction.

"That’s not simple."

Soap smiles faintly.

"It is if you formalise it."

That word, formalise, hangs in the air. Ghost doesn’t react immediately, but something behind his eyes shifts and Soap can see it happen in real time.

"Don’t look at me like that," Soap adds. "I’m not saying anything emotional. I’m saying administrative."

"What are you suggesting?" asks Ghost, his voice low.

Soap exhales through his nose.

"I’m suggesting that if two people are already going to live together, and both of them need legal stability for housing and access reasons…" he pauses a few to catch his breath, "…marriage is the quickest way to shut the system up."

Silence falls back between them. Soap rushes to clarify, immediately sensing he’s crossed into dangerous territory.

"Not in a romantic sense, obviously. Don’t start. I mean paperwork. Cohabitation proof. Housing approval. Medical continuity for her. Off-base approval for you. You’d barely have to change anything day to day," he adds. "Just… makes it legal."

Silence stretches long enough that Soap almost regrets opening his mouth but then Ghost finally says:

"…I’ll think about it."

Soap blinks.

"That’s not a no."

Ghost turns to leave.

"It’s not a yes either."

Soap watches him go, slightly stunned before muttering to himself:

"Well that’s terrifyingly noncommittal."

***

John texts you again a week later. It’s not pressing. Nothing in Soap’s messages ever feels urgent, even when it probably should.

John: Found someone. He’s in. Same kind of mess as yours. Might actually be useful for both of you. We should all meet.

You stare at the message for a moment longer than you should before replying :

You: Define "mess."

John: Housing. Admin. Life generally being a pain in the arse.

That feels… vague enough to be suspicious, but specific enough to be annoying. You agree anyway because at this point in your life, most conversations feel like they’re leading somewhere you haven’t planned for.

***

The pub is supposed to be neutral ground. That was Soap’s logic. Not too loud, not too quiet, no rank structure, no uniforms and no pressure of base or work or anything that would distort first impressions. Ghost still thinks it’s an unnecessary formality. Until he sees her.

She is already there, not waiting anxiously but simply present, seated near the window with a drink she hasn’t touched yet, elbow resting lightly on the table. One of her hands is absent-mindedly turning a page in a notebook that is already full of dense handwriting, a fountain pen next to it. Ghost notices the handwriting before anything else. It's structured. Not neat in a decorative way but organised in thought like someone thinking directly onto paper.

Soap calls her name. She looks up, and Ghost’s first real impression of her as a person in motion forms. Alive, in a very specific way.

There is an immediate contrast in her presence. At first glance her posture is calm, she exudes quiet focus and her styling speaks academia, softened around the edges. Her long curly hair falls loosely on her shoulders and down her back. However, when she registers them, something shifts : her attention redistributes, like a lens adjusting and Soap greets her like someone he has known for a long time. There is ease there. Shared history. No performance. She responds in kind.

Ghost watches that first interaction carefully. It is different from how she had been alone. Now, she is faster, mobile. Soap says something teasing. She answers without missing a beat in a dry and precise manner. It's a little sharp in a way that doesn’t escalate but lands cleanly. The lieutenant immediately clocks something else : she is not socially delicate but socially controlled. Those are not the same thing at all.

Soap turns to him then and introduces him simply :

"Ghost."

That’s when you look at him directly for the first time. Your eyes flicker slightly at the weight behind the name more than the name itself. Soap then gestures to you.

"And her."

He does not offer more than that and neither do you.

This is when Ghost’s perception splits slightly because your attention is not hesitant. Your gaze is observant, completely devoid of flirtation or intimidation. It's probably the same way that you observe everything.

You immediately confirm him as military, not because of his outfit, his masked face or because Soap had told you but because of the absence of wasted movement. He is still, controlled and wearing the kind of posture that suggests he is always ready to leave a room quickly if needed.

Ghost looks at you at the same time. 

The mutual assessment almost feels clinical.

You take him in quickly: posture, stance, stillness, large physique, the way he occupies space without adjusting to it, the balaclava and the absence of unnecessary movement.
You register tired eyes, military discipline, emotional distance, watchfulness that never fully shuts off. He's someone who does not like being in rooms he did not choose, you're sure of it.

He registers tired eyes, intelligence first and health second, controlled posture despite exhaustion, someone used to managing their own chaos alone.
Moreover, you do not linger where most people would. You do not 'react' to him socially, you simply process him before saying :

"Hi."

Ghost nods once. That is all. 

"You two are going to be insufferable," mutters John, leaning back slightly on the wall, watching both of you like he’s just confirmed a theory.

Neither of you reacts to that which only proves his point.

As the conversation starts to pick up between you and John, Ghost’s impression begins to layer properly.
He starts noticing things without meaning to. It’s not his usual system logic and categorisation system, it’s something more instinctive. He notices the way you hold your drink but forget to sip it, the way you interrupt yourself mid-thought to correct a mental tangent, the sudden intensity when you speak about something you care about and the quiet pauses where you are clearly thinking ahead of your words. You are not chaotic in presentation but this is not linear. There is a kind of internal acceleration that does not match your outward stillness. Something else then : when Soap makes a joke at your expense, you do not deflect. You respond without being defensive or reactive but simply being on an equal footing engagement. Ghost registers that too and what begins to form in him is a very early, unlabelled impression: you are not what your stillness suggests at first glance.

You look composed but you are not passive.

You look structured but you are not predictable.

So Ghost, without naming it consciously, files the first real conclusion of the meeting : not 'interesting', not 'useful' and not even 'compatible' but just: not what I expected.

Meanwhile, you finish speaking to John about something completely unrelated, something about inheritance systems in medieval times and Ghost realises something else: you are not performing knowledge: you are simply thinking out loud in real time.

That is the moment his attention stops being purely observational. You are not behaving like a category he already knows and that is always where Ghost starts paying attention more carefully.

Soap claps his hands once, like resetting the room.

"Good. Now that everything is less awkward…"

You glance at Ghost, then back at John. The latter exhales like he’s been waiting for this part.

"Both of you are in housing limbo."

You blink. Ghost does not react. John continues, pointing vaguely between you.

"You want out of the barracks."

You glance at Ghost briefly again. His jaw has tightened slightly you think, you can see the strain on the fabric. John turns to you.

"And you are about to lose your lease, finish your funding, and apparently hate living in conditions that qualify as 'mild psychological warfare'."

You stare at him but stay silent. It's Ghost who finally speaks.

"Get to the point."

Soap smiles which is never a good sign.

"My point is you’re both problems looking for stability so you get married."

The silence that follows is airy, so Soap continues, rapidly now.

"You both need housing stability. You both need administrative simplification. One household solves both your problems in one go. That is how bureaucracy works."

Ghost intervenes in a flat tone.

"That would get me off-base housing approval."

Soap picks up immediately after, looking at him then at you : "Yes. A more stable environment for medical continuity for you and no more constant re-application hell for either of you."

He finally relaxes slightly, sensing he hasn’t been kicked out yet.

"It makes everything easier. Plus you both need a private place to survive your jobs."

You glance at Ghost again but he does not look away from John yet. It’s hard to read his expression with the balaclava on but it seems like he’s processing. John adds then in a softer tone :

"I’m not saying it solves everything emotionally. Just practically."

You exhale slowly.

"Still insane. Even the third time hearing about this."

"Agreed," Soap says immediately. "But functional insane."

Silence falls between you again. It stays longer this time, heavy with calculation. You look away so you're able to think, out loud.

"…It would solve housing."

Ghost answers just as quietly.

"Yes."

"And your situation," you add.

Ghost nods once.

"Yes."

You glance at John.

"And this is your idea of help."

"I’ve done worse," he replies, grinning at you.

That almost earns a reaction but instead you turn back to Ghost to study him for a second. He does the same. Neither of you are smiling - at least you think he isn't - but that doesn’t mean rejection. It’s just two exhausted systems recognising a possible solution. Finally, you say:

"If we do this, it has to be strictly administrative."

Ghost answers without any hesitation.

"Yes."

You nod once.

"No expectations beyond logistics."

"Agreed."

You pause.

"One bedroom," you add.

Ghost’s gaze flickers slightly, revealing a fraction of hesitation. He had not planned that, but it’s the safest and most logical way, so :

"Yes. Paperwork would be clean." 

You blink slightly then huff a small breath through your nose.

"That is not a sentence I expected to hear about marriage."

Soap, watching all of this like a man who has accidentally created a controlled explosion, exhales slowly.

"…Right," he says. "That’s done then."

You both look at him and he immediately holds up both hands.

"Don’t blame me when it gets weird."

Ghost’s voice is flat.

"It already is."

You glance at Ghost, then back at Soap.

"…We’re really doing this."

Soap shrugs.

"You’re really starting it."

Ghost turns slightly.

"Paperwork first."

You nod.

"Yes."

No romance.
No ceremony.
No symbolism acknowledged.
This decision solves too many problems to ignore. You find his eyes again, surrounded by black paint and the fabric of his balaclava.

"…This is going to be weird at first." you murmur.

Ghost exhales once through his nose.

"Hm."

The paperwork takes longer than any of you expected. It isn’t particularly complicated but it’s invasive, in all the wrong ways. There’s forms everywhere, asking about everything : shared intent, living arrangements, stability, questions trying to infer meaning where neither of you are willing to provide it.

That's how, two weeks after your first meeting, you find yourselves sitting side by side at a narrow desk in the administrative office.
Ghost, Simon Riley as the administrative forms told you, is on your right, arms crossed against his chest, face hidden under his balaclava. You are close enough that your sleeves brush when you move, but not so close that it feels intentional. He seems to read everything like it’s an operational briefing whereas you read everything like it’s a bureaucratic nightmare. The clerk behind the desk keeps glancing at you both.

"You understand this will be classified as a domestic partnership upgrade under cohabitation regulation," she says carefully. "With marital status as the most straightforward legal framework for approval."

You nod once.

"Yes."

Ghost says nothing. The clerk looks between you again.

"…And you are both consenting..?"

You exchange a look before coming back to her.

"Yes," you both say at the same time.

The clerk clears her throat slightly.

"Very well."

Typing. Stamps. It's done.

When you leave the building, the air outside feels too normal for what just happened. Ghost is walking slightly ahead of you. You catch up beside him after a few steps. You glance at him and attempt conversation.

"…That was surreal."

"Hm."

You let out a small breath.

"I feel like I should be more emotional about that."

Ghost glances at you briefly.

"Are you?"

You think about it.

"…Not really."

"Hm."

You walk a little further before adding :

"I assume we’ll meet up at the apartment."

Ghost nods once.

"Yes."

"To move in."

"Yes."

You pause.

"…That’s it then."

"Yes." he answers plainly before adding in a quieter tone, "It’s done."

You look at him again. There’s something steady in his voice : not warmth nor distance but certainty. Strangely, that feels like the first stable thing you've had in a long time.

The apartment has already been arranged through the system. It’s efficient in a way that feels slightly impersonal : neutral off-white walls, functional furniture, clean lines and no unnecessary decoration. 

You stand in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. Ghost stands just behind you, letting you step inside first. You make the first few steps slowly, like you’re testing whether it belongs to you. The space echoes slightly when you move through it.

The living room is straight ahead. It's spacious so you'll both have space to put in your own desks. There's an open kitchen with a bar and its stools in the same line with a dinner table and a large window. On the right : two doors. Ghost is following you as you start your short exploration.
One is the loo. The other must be the bedroom. You open it. One king-size bed is there, nightstands, a chest of drawers and a large wardrobe. There's also a door there.
You stare at the room for a second, then exhale.

"…Right."

Ghost is behind you.

"Problem."

"No," you say quickly. "Just… processing."

He hums. The en-suite bathroom door is on the left, you take a peek before turning back to him slightly.

"So this is it."

Ghost nods once.

"Yes."

You glance around again.

"It’s very… functional."

"Hm."

That is not disagreement. It’s acknowledgment. You step back out into the living room. Ghost is still following you.

The silence here is becoming less procedural now and more… real.  You sit down on the edge of the couch without really deciding to. It’s large and comfortable, you like it. With a few colourful soft and colourful blankets it will be perfect. Ghost remains standing for a moment longer, scanning the space like he’s already mentally mapping routines into it. Then, he sits. Not far from you, but not close either. The distance seems carefully balanced. You look at him. He looks back. Neither of you smiles. You couldn’t be sure with his face hidden like that anyway. You break the silence first.

"So."

Ghost waits.

"We’re married now."

He exhales once through his nose.

"Hm."

"That still sounds incorrect," you try again, nodding slowly.

"It is administrative," he says.

"Right… We should probably figure out… rules."

Ghost’s gaze sharpens slightly.

"Rules."

"Yes," you say. "Living rules. Space rules. Expectations. Boundaries."

He nods once.

"Agreed."

You lean back slightly against the couch.

"Like… knocking."

Ghost looks at you.

"Knocking."

"You know. Before entering rooms, if its door’s closed."

A beat passes before he answers.

"…Understood."

You glance toward the bedroom door then back to him.

"And… sleeping."

He doesn’t move so you continue carefully.

"Do you… have a side or….?"

"I don’t," he says simply.

"…Right."

John arrives like he owns the building and saves you from self-combusting due to awkwardness.  His knock is barely finished before the door opens, and he steps in already talking. He grins and claps his hands once like he’s galvanising himself.

"Right. Where’s the heavy stuff?"

You gesture vaguely toward the hallway.

"In the boxes by the door. I can…"

"No," Soap cuts in immediately.

He’s already rolling his shoulders like this is straightforward.

"I’ll take it. You point. I lift. Easy."

You narrow your eyes slightly.

"I’m perfectly capable of carrying some of them."

Soap looks at you for a beat.

"Aye," he says. "And I’m perfectly capable of running into traffic. Chan eil sin a’ ciallachadh gur e deagh bheachd a th’ ann. (Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.)"

Ghost’s gaze shifts slightly at that. Not understanding the context nor the language but noticing the tone. You open your mouth to retort in Gaelic but Ghost cuts you to it.

"English MacTavish." he grumbles.

Soap is already lifting the first box, ignoring him.

"Right. Kitchen or bedroom?"

"I said I can do it," you insist.

Soap doesn’t even slow down.

"Aye, and I said I’m doing it."

Ghost watches this exchange silently. You turn slightly toward him, as if expecting backup but he only says:

"He’ll keep going."

You stare at him.

"That’s not helpful."

"It’s accurate."

Soap reappears with the box already on his shoulder.

"Kitchen stuff?" he calls.

"I’ll sort it," you say quickly. "Just leave it near the kitchen island and I’ll unpack it properly."

Soap pauses to look at the box then at you, tilting his head.

"…Or I could just put it where it belongs and save you the trouble?"

You hesitate.

"I like organising my own things."

Soap shrugs.

"Fair enough."

Then he changes direction, already walking towards the bar and opening the box.

"Kitchen it is."

Ghost watches him do it. You whisper sharply:

"He didn’t even listen."

Ghost answers calmly:

"He did. He just decided differently."

You turn to him.

"That’s worse."

Ghost doesn’t disagree. Soap disappears in the hallway again and his voice booms out :

"WHERE DO YOU WANT THE BOXES WITH BOOKS THAT LOOK LIKE THEY’LL START ARGUMENTS?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

"I don’t have argumentative books."

Ghost says, flat:

"You apparently do."

You glare at him.

"Don’t encourage him."

Ghost’s eyes flick briefly toward the hallway.

"I’m not."

Soap returns immediately, pushing a box full of books towards the living room. There’s a large bookshelf there, you’ll have to buy another one to store all your books and then your desk will fit perfectly between both of them.

"So," he says casually, "you two settling in alright?"

You hesitate. 

"Yes," Ghost answers first.

Soap nods, satisfied, then looks at you.

"…It’s fine."

Soap studies you for a second before nodding like he’s accepted something unspoken.

"Good."

He lifts another box.

"And just so we’re clear if anything’s too heavy, you don’t touch it."

You stare at him for a few seconds before letting out a sigh in defeat. Ghost watches Soap for a moment before saying :

"She doesn’t look fragile."

Soap pauses for a second before saying in a firm tone.

"Aye, but she still shouldn’t."

You frown slightly.

"I’m not…"

"I’m not calling you incapable," Soap interrupts immediately, already walking again. "I’m calling physics consistent."

There’s no condescension in it, it’s just certainty. Ghost’s gaze follows him. You exhale through your nose.

"Don’t be dramatic."

Soap calls over his shoulder:

"Bedroom for these too?"

"I said I would unpack them," you call back.

Soap stops and looks at you again.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright." he shrugs, and carries them past you anyway.

Ghost watches him disappear into the bedroom again before looking at you. You look at him. Neither of you speak for a second, then, you both move at the same time toward the hallway, stop again. Ghost steps aside. You step aside. Both in a silent negotiation of space neither of you has learned yet. Finally, you pass each other into the bedroom without touching. Boxes are stacked against the walls. All your life, in pieces, again. Soap stands in the middle of it like he’s satisfied with the outcome.

"Done," he announces.

You stare at him.

"You’ve put everything else in the bedroom."

"Aye."

"I was going to sort it."

"Then sort it."

"That defeats the point."

Ghost, leaning in the doorway now, says calmly:

"It doesn’t."

You turn toward him.

"Stop agreeing with him."

Ghost’s tone stays even.

"It’s efficient."

Soap grins.

"See?"

You exhale sharply.

"This is my nightmare."

Soap heads back toward the door.

"Noted."

He grabs a beer from the pack he brought with him and had apparently placed in the fridge at some point before collapsing on the couch.
After a while of talking about things you don’t even listen to, not really, he looks at both of you from the couch. You are leaning against the kitchen island and Ghost is sitting in the armchair. There’s something quieter in his expression now.

"Try not to make a mess of it," he says.

You blink.

"…We’re just going to unpack."

Soap nods while sitting up.

"Aye."

He deposits his empty bottle on the coffee and, just like that, leaves. The door clicks shut. Silence settles.

You look in direction of the bedroom again. Its door was left ajar. You can see the boxes there. Ghost turns his head to follow your gaze. He takes in the boxes, then looks back at you.

"You unpacking."

It’s not a question, or at least, it doesn’t sounds like one. You sigh.

"Yes…"

Ghost nods once.

"Good."

You get to it, taking your bottle of water with you. He gets up and you both start unpacking in silence.

Time passes in the blink of an eye as you get into it, unpacking box after box. You don’t have that much stuff, in your opinion. Your two suitcases of clothes are now empty, half of your kitchen appliances are now where they belong, but Ghost finished unpacking most of his things hours ago. You made the bed together with a new set of sheets and are now beginning to suspect he approaches moving house the same way he approaches military operations : with efficiency and ruthlessly. There isn't any sentimental pause halfway through a box because he found an old notebook and forgot what he was doing.

You are currently surrounded by books which is familiar enough for you.
The history books have invaded half the living room floor whereas literature has somehow spread out on the other half. You are kneeling in front of a box labelled ARCHIVES / IXth century when Ghost appears in the doorway. He doesn't say anything immediately and just looks for a few seconds before stating :

"There's a takeaway down the road."

You look up.

"Okay?"

"You eaten?"

You glance at the clock at last, just to realise it is nearly eight.

"...not really."

He nods once.

"Any allergies?"

"No."

There’s an odd pause before he asks again :

"Any food you hate?"

You think about it.

"Chicory."

Ghost gives a short nod and leaves with no further discussion. The door closes behind him. You stare after him realising that was possibly the longest conversation you've had since signing the marriage paperwork which feels absurd considering you now technically live together. And you are married.

The whole thing still feels faintly ridiculous.

An administrative arrangement. A practical solution. A legal contract. A stranger with who you now share a surname.

Twenty minutes later he returns carrying two paper bags.
You abandon the books and sit at the kitchen island. He sits opposite you.
For a while the only sound is cutlery. The food is surprisingly good. Ghost is still wearing the balaclava. He raises it just enough to eat, nothing more. You make a very deliberate effort not to stare because it feels rude but also because you suspect he would notice and somehow, that would be worse. By the time you're halfway through the meal you're already feeling the day catching up with you.

Moving.
Commute.
Boxes.
Stress.

The exhaustion sits heavily behind your eyes.
You stop bringing the spoon to your mouth, staring into the void. Ghost notices before you say anything.

"You done?"

"Yeah," you say with a shrug, "I'll keep the rest for tomorrow."

Ghost nods. You get up to put the leftovers in the fridge before leaning against the counter for a moment. The silence returns, again. It’s not uncomfortable exactly but still unfamiliar.
You clear your throat.

"So."

Ghost looks up.

"Hm."

You almost laugh. This might be the least conversational man you've ever met.

"Are you going to base on Monday?"

He thinks for a second before answering with the precision of someone reciting a report.

"Drills Monday mornings.", he pauses before continuing. You’re not sure if it is to give himself the time to think or to give you the space to cut in if you needed.  "Paperwork Tuesday." He pauses again. "Wednesdays too, probably from home. Thursday's for briefings. Supervising drills and training on Friday."

You blink.

"Oh, okay. Thanks for letting me know."

Ghost shrugs.

"You asked."

Fair. Because he's not asking and it feels awkward not to return the favour you start explaining yout own schedule :

"I'll mostly be working from here."

His attention shifts back to you but he stays silent so you decide to give more details.

"Research and uni’ teaching, mostly remote. Especially since... well, it's the summer hols right now.". You gesture vaguely. "One or two days on campus usually starting late September."

You pause, like he did, giving him space to cut in.

"More during seminars."

Another pause, during which he stays still.

"Or for back-to-school. Before exam periods too."

Ghost nods once then. It seems the information was received and immediately filed away.
The conversation dies naturally after that. It’s like neither of you has learned yet how to continue talking once the practical information has been exchanged. Eventually you finish tidying the kitchen. The boxes remain unfinished. However, you just can’t be bothered to care anymore. By the time you reach the bedroom you're running almost entirely on momentum.

The king-sized bed suddenly feels much smaller than it did when you arrived because now, you fully realise that you both are getting in it. Ghost is standing behind you, waiting again it seems.
You hesitate briefly, then climb in on one side. The mattress shifts slightly when he gets in on the opposite side and immediately, you become hyper-aware of everything.

The distance between you.
The unfamiliar breathing.
The fact that you are sharing a bed with a man whose face you have never even seen. Technically your husband, but still wearing a balaclava. Even now that the room is dark. Neither of you speaks for several minutes.

"...Goodnight."

Your voice sounds strangely loud. Silence. You’re starting to feel embarrassed but then, somewhere in the darkness his voice comes out, low :

"Night."

That's it. Silence again.
Two strangers lying side by side in the same bed, listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of each other's breathing and wondering what on earth they've gotten themselves into.

The first morning in the apartment doesn’t feel like a morning but like a continuation of the previous day that never properly ended.

Light is leaking through the curtains. Boxes are still stacked unevenly in corners. Nothing is in its 'place' yet because no one has agreed what that even means.

You think you wake up first. It’s not because you slept particularly well, rather because your body still doesn’t fully trust the environment. The bed was shared, as decided. That part had been simple on paper but less so in reality.

Ghost is on the other side of it. Still. Maybe too still?
He seems to sleep in a way that suggests he never fully leaves alertness behind. One arm rests near his chest. The other is close enough to react quickly if needed. Maybe he’s not even sleeping, hard to tell.  He is still wearing his balaclava. You stare at him for a moment longer than you mean to then,  carefully sit up. The mattress shifts slightly and Ghost opens his eyes immediately without delay.

You pause.

"…Morning."

His voice is low when it comes out.

"Hm."

That is apparently greeting enough. You get your legs off the bed. He does not move at first, then you hear it : the faint rustle of fabric. When you glance back, he has adjusted the balaclava and is sitting up slowly. You see his eyes check the room, the door, the window, then, he stands.

"Rules," he says.

You blink.

"…Now?"

Ghost puts on a large sweater and adjusts his sleeves slightly. ‘Lieutenant’ is written in the back. You hate to admit it how your stomach twists at it, making your knees weak. Focus.

"Yes."

You hesitate.

"Right. Okay."

He looks at you.

"My name."

You stare at him, a bit lost as to what he wants from you before you remember.

"…Ghost?"

A slight nod.

"Good."

That is it. He disappears into the bathroom without another word.

After your morning coffee and his tea, you both start your own activities. The apartment starts functioning in fragments that day. There’s no routines yet, just pieces.

Ghost moves through the space with a kind of quiet efficiency that makes everything he does look like part of a plan you haven’t been briefed on.

You try to match his pace. You fail slightly. You make coffee again mid-morning. He corrects nothing, but he moves your mug closer to the kettle without explanation. You take that as permission to continue existing near him. At some point, you sit on the couch with your laptop open. He is at the small table in the kitchen area, going through something on his phone. The silence between you is still… undefined. You speak first without looking up.

"So… do you always wear that indoors?"

Ghost doesn’t answer immediately. When you begin to wonder if he’s simply going to ignore you he answers :

"Yes."

You glance at him and his eyes surrounded with black.

"…The balaclava."

"Yes."

You hesitate.

"And the paint?"

"Usually."

You nod slowly like you’re processing a new category of weather.

"Okay."

Ghost doesn’t elaborate. There is something slightly strange about it still. Him, standing there fully covered indoors, like the apartment is an extension of somewhere else rather than a place that belongs to either of you.

However, you’ve already decided not to question it yet. Not on day two at least. You’re not frightened per se, he’s John’s friend, but it still is a bit unsetlling. Your eyes regularly come back to him. He is watching you too. Not in a staring way but in a tracking way it seems, like he is noticing details without assigning meaning yet.

You feel it, faintly, but don’t comment and instead you say:

"I’m going to finish unpacking today."

"Hm."

Silence, again. You start leaving the kitchen area but then he speaks again :

"Leave heavy boxes."

You glance at him over your shoulder. Ghost adds for good measure :

"‘have to do mine anyway."

He has done most of them yesterday, you saw it, but that phrasing makes you stop for half a second because he’s not ordering you around and he’s not concerned either. His tone just suggests removal of necessity. You shrug lightly and acquiesce with a simple nod.

The day continues as a 'functional only' arrangement. You are unpacking a box of kitchen things when there’s a small shift in your posture that you weren’t prepared for. You stop mid-movement, your hand hovering slightly above the box that’s on the floor. Then, your other hand goes to your left wrist as you stand back absentmindedly. You rub at it lightly to ground yourself. Ghost is looking at you from the living room. You haven’t noticed it, you are still focused on the box.

He doesn’t say anything, he watches your hand instead. Finally, you straighten fully, see him watching and stop. Your wrist lowers slightly. You flex your fingers once.

"It’s just stiff," you explain automatically.

He doesn’t say anything to that but is still staring at you. You hesitate, then try to redirect.

"It’s nothing. I’m fine."

Ghost doesn’t accept or reject that. He just observes you for a moment longer, then, he speaks again :

"Medical condition?"

You blink.

"…What?"

Ghost’s gaze doesn’t move from you.

"You have one. Is it linked ?

The room feels suddenly smaller in a way that has nothing to do with space. You hesitate longer this time before sighing slightly :

"Partly but, it's noth…"

You stop halfway. Because the word nothing feels incorrect now. You correct yourself carefully and let out after another sigh.

"I thought John told you. It’s managed."

Ghost’s head tilts slightly. That is the first sign he’s actually listening beyond surface language. You set the box down and, leaning lightly against the counter now, you exhale.

"It’s autoimmune," you admit finally. "Has been for a while."

Ghost doesn’t react outwardly, however, something in his attention sharpens. You continue quickly, as if filling silence prevents it from becoming heavier.

"It’s controlled. Medication, monitoring, all that. It just... flares sometimes."

"Flares," he repeats, his voice slightly lower.

You nod.

"Fatigue mostly. Pain. Some neurological stuff if it gets bad. But it’s not constant.". A beat passes and you add, lighter than it should be: "I’m fine most of the time."

Ghost seems to absorb what you said for a few seconds before talking again :

"Medication."

"Yes."

"Where?"

You blink.

"…Fridge. Some in my bag and a box I need to unpack in the bathroom."

Ghost gets immediately to his feet. The movement is not necessarily abrupt, simply decisive. You watch him walk towards you, slightly confused.

"Ghost, I don’t need…"

"I know," he says.

That stops you. He opens the fridge, finds the box, checks it and closes it again before looking at you.

"Keep it visible."

You frown slightly.

"…That’s not necessary."

His voice stays flat.

"It is. The ones in the bathroom too."

You exhale through your nose.

"You’re very intense for someone who insists on distance and anonymity."

Ghost doesn’t react to that. He just adjusts the fridge door slightly so it closes properly.

"Does it affect movement?"

You hesitate.

"…Sometimes."

You see it register, in a practical way more than an emotional way, like a variable being added to a system. Ghost turns away slightly, aiming back to the living room. As he passes next to you he says, quieter :

"Tell me when it changes."

You blink.

"…Why?"

He pauses slightly.

"So it doesn’t become a surprise."

There’s no comfort in there, no reassurance, simply prevention. Something in your expression softens anyway, without you meaning it to.
For the first time since a long time, it doesn’t feel like you are managing everything alone in a shared space because Ghost, still wearing his mask, still half-hidden behind layers of controlled distance, began, without naming it, to treat your condition as something real that he’ll account for.

***

Throughout the next days, the apartment settles around both of you slowly. Not through conversations but through repetition.
Ghost learns that, even though you’re supposed to be sorting them out, you leave books everywhere except where they belong.
You learn that he folds laundry with military precision and becomes visibly irritated when towels are ‘done wrong’, even though he never actually says the words done wrong. He’s also spookingly quiet. You only barely manage to transform your screams into startled gasps when you stumble upon him in the apartment, unaware he had been back, all clad in his black clothing and covered face. And he’s buff. Ridiculously so, even more than John. He’s taller too. The whole package is a quite intimidating at times.

Ghost learns you talk to yourself when you work sometimes, in fragments. He hears murmured thoughts while you are typing and half-finished arguments directed at invisible academics when you are reading.

"You cannot seriously cite Spufford there, that’s intellectually irresponsible…"

He says nothing the first few times even though at first, he assumes you are speaking to him. However, he soon realises you genuinely narrate your own thought process aloud without noticing. It should be distracting but instead, strangely, it becomes part of the apartment’s background noise in the evenings.
Like the kettle. Like pages turning. Like rain against the windows.

On Wednesday, he realises you must do it while cooking too. You are making yourself a late breakfast after hours of sipping coffee while heavily annotating a large book.

"I’ll just double the amount of garlic." you mutter over the pan where two eggs are being fried along with spinach.

Ghost feels himself unable to resist cutting in from the kitchen doorway:

"It’s excessive."

You startle again, not having registered he was that close, before hiding it and reply without even looking at him but pointing the wooden spoon in his direction.

"You’re wrong."

Ghost watches you dump more garlic into the pan and, silently gets you a plate from the cupboard.

That’s the day where groceries become part of your shared life. The first routine that settles before either of you notices it became one.
That first trip is purely logistical : you’re both home that Wednesday, you both need food because takeout and the basic pantry you built thanks to the small shop down the road is no longer sustainable. You both live there. It is easier to go once together than separately, nothing more.

It is strangely silent at first.
Ghost has switched to a black plain mask he raised up to his eyes and a black beanie underneath the hood of his sweatshirt, probably because a balaclava in town would alarm everyone. He pushes the cart because he now naturally assumed responsibility for anything heavy. You drift through aisles slowly, reading labels with alarming intensity. He notices it almost immediately. You stand motionless in front of two identical jars for nearly a full minute before picking one up. You put it back. Pick up the other, turn it around. Pick up the first one and turn it around as well. You read, you frown, you put them both back in place and pick up a third one. You settle on the last one and put it in the cart. Ghost, watching this process for a while, finally speaks up :

"They’re all tomatoes."

"First one had added sugar," you say without looking at him. "The other had inflammatory oils."

Ghost stares at the jars.

"…It’s sauce."

You point at the label like a lecturer correcting misinformation.

"It’s chemistry."

He says nothing after that, mostly because he is trying to determine whether you are joking. You are not.

Ghost learns quickly that shopping with you is not a trivial activity, it is an investigation. You compare nutritional values with frightening concentration. You reject entire brands on principle, because ‘boycott’. You stand in aisles muttering things like: "Why would they put corn syrup in this?"

Ghost follows silently behind you with the cart. At first he assumes this is academic overthinking applied to food but then patterns emerge : you avoid certain oils, certain processed foods, refined sugar sometimes. You read labels especially carefully when it comes to anything pre-packaged.

Meanwhile, Ghost shops like someone preparing for infrastructure collapse.

Tea.
Protein bars.
Rice.
Canned goods.
Batteries.
More tea.

You stop in the middle of the aisle at one point and stare into the cart.

"…Why are you buying enough tea to compensate for a natural disaster?"

Ghost shrugs once.

"Need stock."

"You have thirty-seven protein bars."

"Hm."

"That’s not a defense."

"It is if stores close."

You stare at him.

"…Do you anticipate societal collapse often?"

"Yes."

You blink once before nodding, slowly.

"Okay."

***

Over the rest of the week, he keeps filing things about you. Ghost is watching you one evening: writing, reading, muttering, moving between tasks. He already ate at base, it’s almost ten and suddenly he hears himself asking :

"…Have you eaten today?"

You don't even pause to answer, completely absorbed in your research.

"…Hm, ‘think so."

Ghost stares at you. You add, politely:

"I had coffee."

That is not an answer. He silently files that away.

By midday on Saturday, Ghost is cooking. You are beside him, leaning on the counter, reading again, something on your phone. Your attention drifts and your hand reaches absent-mindedly for the hot pan handle as if your brain had prioritised thought over sensory input.

"Don’t," says Ghost, catching your wrist before contact.

You blink once and look down like you’ve just been reinserted into your body.

"Sorry. It looked done."

You withdraw your hand and return to reading like nothing interrupted you. He removes the pan from the heat with the help of a tea towel. You watch him for a second before speaking again, your tone light :

"I wasn’t going to drop it you know."

"I know," he pauses. "You were going to burn yourself."

You consider this, look up at him again, then at the pan, and blink.

"Oh. Right. Thanks."

He says nothing. You go back to the article on your phone. Ghost, however, stays slightly more aware after that, recalibrating proximity awareness while you realise, in the background of your mind, that he is a good cook.
He’s not creative nor experimental but he is precise. Everything is timed correctly. Every flavour gets balanced. Also, what he is cooking is starting to genuinely smell incredible. You look at the stove again.

"You can cook."

Ghost glances at you once.

"Yes."

That’s only when he puts the plate in front of you that you realised he cooked for both of you.

"You made this voluntarily?"

"Hm."

You stare at the plate, then back at him.

"…Why?"

Ghost answers like the question is obvious.

"You forgot to eat."

You open your mouth and pause because unfortunately, he’s correct.

"I was busy."

Ghost takes his own plate of food calmly.

"You’ve been working since you woke up."

"That’s called academia."

"That’s called stupidity."

You narrow your eyes at him. He digs in his own plate.

"Eat."

Somehow, despite the bluntness, there is no meanness in it, just fact.

After that, cooking becomes routine too, before either of you notices it happening. Seeing him in the kitchen conditions your brain to stop what you’re doing and join him. The other reason is because you know he might make some for you too and that’s just embarrassing. You don’t cook together at first : you alternate.  You make food while he cleans. He cooks while you answer emails at the counter. However, eventually it becomes easier to simply... coordinate.

"What’s left in the fridge?"

"Courgettes. Aubergine. Cooked rice. Eggs."

"Hm."

"That sounded judgmental."

"It wasn’t."

You snort quietly and look at the time. There’s still enough to do some groceries before closing time. You both decide to go again.

There, he still buys tea like a man preparing for a siege.

"You have three boxes left in the kitchen."

"Not enough."

"That’s clinically concerning."

Ghost looks at your coffee selection.

"You drink dirt water."

You gasp softly.

"It’s Ethiopian roast."

"Tastes burnt."

"You drink boiled leaves, all powdered and crammed into a little bag made of microplastics."

"Hm."

You glare at each other for a second before continuing your shopping.

As you both walk through the isles, the anti-inflammatory diet clicks into place for Ghost gradually.  You don’t say anything, but he is observing. You never announce restrictions dramatically, you simply don’t buy certain things. You put items back after checking labels. Ghost has tracked the pattern silently for weeks before he finally asks.

You are standing in front of refrigerated meals now, reading ingredients with visible suspicion. Ghost watches you put back the third option in a row.

"You avoid sugar."

You glance at him.

"…Not entirely."

"Oils."

"Sometimes."

"Processed food."

"Depends."

Ghost watches you for another second.

"Why?"

It doesn’t seem intrusive nor judgmental, he looks like he’s gathering information again. You hesitate briefly before answering.

"Inflammation."

Ghost waits in silence, which you now understand as an indication for you to continue. You sigh softly.

"With autoimmune stuff, certain foods can make flare symptoms worse."

His attention sharpens immediately at the word flare so you continue before he can ask more.

"Not dramatically. It’s not magic. But it helps reduce stress on the body."

"Diet affects symptoms."

"Sometimes."

You shrug lightly.

"It’s not really an exact science. Bodies are annoying."

Ghost hums quietly then takes the box from your hands, reads the label himself for the first time, and puts it back on the shelf.

When you come back, you naturally fall into rhythm while putting the groceries away. It then evolves into you both getting to cook lunch. Once again you can’t help yourself noticing how Ghost cooks exactly the way he does everything else: precisely. He’s not weighing anything but clearly has an idea in his head about how each ingredient should be measured, the timing, the heat. There really is no place for improvisation in there. As he starts making rice, you stare openly.

"…Are you timing rice?"

"Yes."

"You can just feel when it’s done."

Ghost looks at you like you just admitted to navigating by astrology.

"No."

You laugh softly.

"Yes, you can."

Ghost measures water exactly to the line.

"You guess quantities."

"I know quantities."

"You guessed garlic last week."

"I felt the spirit of the dish."

Ghost goes silent for a second before muttering without looking at you :

"That means nothing."

You grin.

"It means everything."

Cooking together becomes bizarrely functional after that. You move instinctively, tasting as you go and adding things without measuring. Ghost watches this process with visible distrust.

"How much paprika did you put in?"

You shrug.

"Enough."

Ghost stares at you in silence and even with his balaclava on, you are able to imagine the face he is making. It makes you laugh hard enough that you nearly spill sauce on the counter. Ghost catches the bowl automatically before it tips. You point at him dramatically.

"See? That was teamwork."

Ghost releases the bowl slowly. There’s a scowl behind the fabric hiding his face, you’re sure of it.

"That was preventing disaster."

He gets quieter afterward however and it doesn’t seem irritated anymore, just, adjusting to your way of existing. The kitchen gets warm in a muted way. It’s not particularly bright nor lively but it’s functional.

Ghost starts cutting red meat with steady precision while you are waiting for the sauce to thicken, the knife moving in clean, efficient lines against the board. You stand beside him, not helping exactly, just present.

You’re watching the movement of the knife more than the raw piece of whatever that animal part is called itself at first. And his hands.

Ghost notices, but says nothing. Then you remember he has probably killed people with those hands and you’re suddenly not sure how to feel about that. Your thoughts drift for a bit, your gaze still fixated on the scene in front of you.

"Is that similar to human tissue?"

Ghost pauses mid-cut and looks at you.

"…What?"

You don’t look away from the board.

"I mean structurally. Muscle density, vascularity. It looks relatively similar in composition from an external perspective."

A beat passes before you add, slightly more thoughtful:

"There isn’t much blood though. I suppose most of it is drained before butchering. There’s probably significantly more in the actual process."

Ghost resumes cutting slowly.

"…Probably."

You nod once, as if the answer slots into a mental comparison before your gaze glides again to the knife.

"Stabbing trauma is interesting in that context," you add, almost absent-mindedly.

Ghost’s hand stills again, not fully this time but just enough to register. You continue before he responds.

"Because penetration injuries depend heavily on angle and resistance. Medieval accounts are often exaggerated, but some of the methods described, and particularly prolonged impalement techniques, would have required very specific anatomical understanding, even if not formally medical."

The atmosphere around you is still calm, slightly cozy despite what is coming out of your mouth. You reach for a piece of chopped vegetable and pop it into your mouth. Ghost is watching you properly now, fully attentive without being alarmed.

"Is that so?"

And then something changes in your cadence. The volume and the tone stay the same but it seems like something in you activated. He registers it as the way your mind locks onto a thread.

"It’s interesting because early execution practices often prioritised endurance over immediate lethality. Which suggests a different conceptual framework around pain as a process rather than an outcome, like a structured sequence rather than an event."

You gesture slightly, taking the knife he used to cut the vegetables in your hand, thinking through motion.

"Which is why I think comparisons between animal slaughter techniques and human punishment systems are historically misleading, because they assume different ethical frameworks are separable from mechanical constraints, when in reality they often evolved in parallel under similar technological limitations…", you stop briefly to breathe before continuing, slightly softer now, still immersed: "…and that also affects how we interpret historical descriptions of violence, because chroniclers tend to encode moral judgement into mechanical detail, which distorts actual procedural understanding."

Silence greets your words. The only sound now is the pan sizzling. Ghost has stopped moving entirely, and not because he is disturbed in a visible way but because he is watching you like a problem he has not yet decided how to classify.

You blink. Then seem to return slightly.

"Oh. Sorry."

You glance at the pot where the sauce is still simmering lightly.

"I went off track."

You smile tentatively and go back to the stove to stir the Japanese curry with a wooden spoon, leaving Ghost to his cutting board and his thoughts. That’s when he realises he understood something new : your fascination is entered gradually through association of ideas and went from knife and meat to tissue to injury to systems to historical structures and right into an abstraction loop. It isn’t chaotic. It’s a branching internal logic that expands outward from whatever is physically in front of you. Ghost says nothing more but his attention shifts slightly to become more precise. Because he is beginning to realise something that doesn’t have a name yet: you are not unpredictable, you are continuously associative. And that makes you, in his world, far more complex than unpredictability ever was.

***

The cold and awkward silence that was there during the first days between you starts changing shape.
The apartment is still quiet, still sparse, but slowly it’s starts feeling fuller. You stop feeling observed all the time.

Ghost stops feeling like he has to maintain distance in every room. You work on the couch while he reads nearby.
You both exist in parallel without needing constant interaction.

Sometimes hours pass with only a few exchanged words but the apartment no longer feels cold, just calm.

He still doesn’t talk much. You try to make an effort, saying a small "hi" when he opens the front door, and a "how was work". At which he always answers "fine" and the conversation’s over. You quickly realise he is perfectly capable of sitting in complete silence for forty-five minutes without finding it strange so you stop trying and adjust around it instead.

You’re replying to your friend Paisley, stirring tomato sauce on the stove one evening when you let out what you just learned thanks to the article she sent you :

"...Apparently octopuses punch fish."

Silence.

"It isn't even aggression."

He keeps chopping carrots.

"They just... do it."

Still silence.

"I think that's objectively hilarious."

Nothing.

"So there's someone funded to research whether octopuses commit assault."

Ghost puts the carrots in the sauce without a word.

The next day, you’re both reading in the living room when you say, without looking up :

"I read something today."

"Hm."

"Apparently ravens can recognise individual human faces."

Ghost doesn't even look at you as he answers.

"So can magpies."

"...What?"

"They remember people who threaten the nest."

"You knew that?"

There’s silence again. Then he talks again :

"You never finished the octopus article."

You stare.

"...Pardon?"

"You stopped after the fish."

He finally looks over.

"Did they work out why?"

You just stare at him, flabbergasted for a few seconds.

"You've been listening?"

"You've been talking."

That stuns you a little and, as you start explaining what they found out about octopi’s behaviour, you silently commit to start narrating your day from then on because now, it would feel wrong not to.

The next Tuesday, the apartment is quiet except for the sound of Ghost typing.
Paperwork, reports, spreadsheets.

The kind of work he hates almost as much as being trapped indoors during summer. At least, his demand to do it from home was approved and he’s not stuck on his uncomfortable desk at base. The kitchen table is much better, and, contrary to your desk in the corner of the living room, devoid of any chaotic stacks of papers.

He glances up automatically when the front door opens revealing you, carrying an entire watermelon.
A full one. Balanced awkwardly against your hip.

He stares.

"You buy that from a farm?"

You kick the door shut behind you.

"Naw."

Then you immediately walk into the kitchen. You're dressed exactly like someone who has lost a fight with temperature regulation. Oversized grey sweatshirt. Sweatpants. Middle of July.

Your hair is damp though, and he knows for sure it hasn’t been raining. Ghost files it away and returns to his paperwork. For approximately thirty seconds, because then you put the watermelon on the counter with a heavy thunk. You open your laptop, check something, type a few words and leave it open before turning around to grab a knife from the drawer.

Ghost watches.

You cut the watermelon cleanly in half then into quarters before taking one entire quarter and starting eating it standing over the sink like you've been stranded in a desert.

Ghost lowers his laptop screen slightly.

"...Jesus."

You glance over.

"What?"

"You always eat like that?"

You shrug.

"After swimming? Yeah."

You take another bite, then another and another. Half the watermelon disappears with alarming speed. Ghost finds himself watching the way you move despite himself. Your shoulders. The posture. The unconscious efficiency. There's something different about you this morning. You seem looser, more confident in your gestures, more present.
Then, you’re brushing past him to grab a charger from the table he’s sitting at. You get close enough that your sweatshirt sleeve brushes his arm and suddenly the smell hits him.

Chlorine.
Damp fabric.
Shampoo.
Watermelon.
Summer.

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

"You smell like a pool."

You interrupt your movement, turn and stare at him. You’re closer than usual now and from above you can clearly see his eyes, brown.

"...thank you?"

Ghost immediately regrets speaking.

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"Okay… What was it supposed to be then?"

"…Observation."

You blink at him then go back to your watermelon. Ghost stares at his laptop for several seconds before realising he's forgotten what he was working on.

As the days pass, you start learning his habits. Ghost cooks when he needs structure and starts chopping vegetables with terrifying precision when thinking. He starts the kettle automatically when either of you is tired and keeps inventory in his head at all times.

One morning, your coffee is already waiting when you wake up. You stare at it suspiciously while Ghost is drinking his tea at the table.

"You made coffee."

"Yes."

"You hate coffee."

Ghost shrugs once.

"You drink it."

A few days later, you make tea for him automatically while making your own coffee and hand it over without thinking.

Ghost pauses slightly before taking it.

"You hate tea."

You sip your coffee.

"You drink it."

Ghost goes quiet again after that.

As you both get out, heading to the shop and throwing out the trash on your way, you stumble upon a neighbour.
He asks about your recent moving in and if you're settling well before asking :

"You've been married a while then?"

You’re about to launch yourself into an answer, half-lie and half-truth when, without missing a beat Ghost says :

"Feels longer."

You look at him, narrowing your eyes.

"...Charming."

"How did you two meet?"

You open your mouth but Ghost answers first, again.

"University."

You nod automatically and he adds :

"Library."

"I thought he hated me," you continue, because two can play this game.

"I did," he replies.

Bastard.

"For about two weeks," you correct, squinting your eyes.

"Three."

The neighbour laughs.

"What changed?"

You both answer together then :

"She kept talking."

"...He kept listening."

You freeze and so does he. The neighbour smiles warmly.

"Oh, that's lovely."

Neither of you correct him.

As you are both getting into the car, ready to get to the supermarket, you look over.

"...We are alarmingly believable."

Ghost starts the engine without a glance towards you.

"Seems like it."

***

The first injection day slips into that routine almost unnoticed. After you finished your coffee and ate a few grapes with toast, he sees you moving through the apartment with a more deliberate economy, as if unconsciously conserving energy.
He notices because he notices changes in baseline, that’s all.

You disappear into the bathroom with the small insulated pouch from the fridge you showed him during the first week.

The bathroom door stays ajar and Ghost, in the kitchen making tea again, catches fragments only. The click of packaging. A pause. Then the sharp sound of an intake of breath you try to suppress, one of anticipation more than pain. He doesn’t look directly, he doesn’t intrude, but he registers enough through that.
Injection.
Medical.
Routine.

When you come out again, you’re calm, maybe your lips are slightly paler but otherwise, you’re unchanged. You move toward the couch and sit down with your laptop like nothing happened. Ghost watches for a second before going back to making tea, filing the information away silently.

A few hours later, though, he notices another shift : you’re slowing down. It’s not dramatic but it’s enough for your movements to take slightly longer. You close your laptop and curl slightly deeper into the couch before pulling a blanket over your legs despite the apartment not being cold.
His brain supplies the word immediately : fatigue, pronounced enough to register. Ghost assesses it quietly from the armchair across from you. Side effect profile. You don’t seem particularly distressed. You’re just reduced.

Eventually you fall asleep halfway through whatever article you were reading on your phone.
He stands after a while, crosses the room and takes the phone carefully off your hand before it slips and sets it on the coffee table. Then, he returns to his chair without waking you. When you wake up less than an hour later, you reach for your laptop again before opening the notebook you had left on the coffee table. Notes quickly become scattered beside you.

Ghost is now at the table, cleaning something that doesn’t really look like it needs cleaning. Or maybe it does. It’s hard to tell with him.
At some point, your hand leaves the keyboard without you noticing.

Your fingers brush your left wrist in a light and absent manner.

Ghost sees it immediately from his position. He doesn’t turn his head fully : just shifts his attention. Your hand drops, and immediately returns for a slightly firmer rub. Then again, a fraction longer.
You don’t register him watching. You are still reading something on your screen, brow faintly furrowed.
Ghost sets the cloth down. You notice him only when he is already in the room.

"Yes?" you ask automatically.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes are on your wrist. You follow his gaze.

"…It’s fine," you say immediately.

Ghost doesn’t react to the words, he’s just repeating the earlier pattern in his head. You rubbing it more than the previous days. Earlier in the day than usual. Longer than usual. He files it. You move your wrist slightly as if to prove it’s nothing (although the soft pop it emits doesn't really help your case) and you continue :

"It’s just a bit stiff. Probably b…"

"Stop."

You blink.

"…What?"

"Stop using it for a second."

You hesitate then, slowly, lower your hand into your lap, still. Ghost hums before going to sit on the armchair, he opens up his book, falls silent again. A bit stunned, you stare at him for a few seconds before coming back to your own reading.

Later that day, you both head out for the weekly groceries.
You start noticing him checking labels on your next shopping trip, reading ingredient lists silently, putting things back. The first time he does it without prompting, you blink at him. Ghost clocks it immediately.

"What."

"You’re reading ingredients."

"Hm."

"You made fun of me for that."

"No."

"You absolutely did."

Ghost continues scanning the label calmly. You didn’t ask anything but he esteems he has observed enough now. 

"Contains inflammatory oils."

You stare at him for a second before laughing softly under your breath. Ghost looks at you.

"What?"

"Nothing."

***

The Walking Dead starts by accident on the following day, a rainy Sunday morning.

You were supposed to go out, it became part of your personal routine at that point : usually you spend your Sunday mornings in cafés and libraries or at the swimming pool because the apartment still feels too new to stay trapped inside all day.
However, you woke up tired and your body feels heavy in that familiar way so instead, you stay home.

Ghost notices immediately through deviation from pattern, again.
You are on the couch under a blanket when he comes back from the gym and stops. TV on. Zombie noises echoing through the apartment. Ghost stares at the screen then at you.

"…What is this."

You don’t look away from the episode.

"The Walking Dead."

Ghost continues staring.

"You watch this?"

"Yes."

A zombie gets stabbed badly on-screen. Ghost’s silence deepens somehow before he blurts out :

"Why?"

You finally glance at him.

"Because it’s fun."

"That’s rubbish."

You shrug.

"It’s relaxing."

Ghost looks personally offended by that statement making you grin faintly.

"Don’t be elitist."

"Hm."

He should leave. Normally he would, retreat to the bedroom, read alone in peace, maintain distance. Instead, after a moment too long to be accidental, he walks over and sits on the opposite side of the couch, a book in his lap. He’s not close but he’s definitely staying.

You say nothing and neither does he. For a while, none of you speaks. There’s just the television sounds and the rain. A page turns once before Ghost eventually stops pretending to read. Then, during a particularly terrible survival decision on-screen he mutters:

"That would get you killed."

You snort softly.

"There it is."

Ghost looks at you.

"What."

"You’re invested now."

"I’m not."

On-screen, a character starts yelling instead of hiding. Ghost visibly disapproves.

"Idiotic."

You grin into your blanket.

"You care."

"Hm."

Five minutes later he speaks again :

"They shouldn’t split up."

You laugh quietly.

"Oh my god."

Ghost ignores that.

"They’re wasting resources."

"You sound genuinely irritated."

"They’re incompetent."

You are smiling openly now. Ghost notices from the corner of his eye and looks back at the screen immediately afterward. He stays for the entire episode, then the next one.

At some point, you realise he’s stopped pretending he dislikes it.

At some point, Ghost realises he now knows the characters’ names.

Neither of you acknowledges either fact aloud.
You simply mention starting over with the first episode of the first season and he answers with a "hm". Confirmation.

Later, after you pressed pause to get something to drink, Ghost notices it happening again. You’re standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle when you shift your weight slightly. Your left wrist brushes against your palm.

There’s a small rub, then again, a little firmer. Ghost sees it from the couch. He says nothing but he doesn’t refrain from watching. You don’t look up because you don’t notice. You set two mugs down, absentmindedly flex your fingers and your hand returns to that same wrist again. Ghost’s eyes narrow a fraction as recognition tries to form without context.  He has seen injury patterns before, fatigue compensation and stress habits and pain responses that don’t announce themselves clearly until they already are established. However, he doesn’t yet know what this one means. He only knows that it is consistent, and increasing. It could be a detail but it’s repeating often enough to matter. There’s a pattern there, it feels like a signal and Ghost, without naming it yet, begins to do what he always does with things like that.

He starts watching more closely.

***

The third week is when things finally starts to feel less like moving in and more like something that has a rhythm.
Ghost is already awake when you rise, as usual. Adjusted balaclava and coffee ready for you in the kitchen, like he’s waiting for something before he allows himself to properly settle into the day.
You’ve gotten used to that now : he doesn’t start anything until he has accounted for everything in the room. It’s subtle, but consistent. You pad into the kitchen in socks, still half-drifting out of sleep. Ghost glances at you briefly.

"Sleep?"

You blink.

"…Yes?"

He looks at you before going back to his mug of tea.

"Hm."

That’s apparently satisfactory. You reach for your coffee and without thinking, you shift your weight slightly onto your left side as you stretch. Your back tugs. It’s a reflex more than a reaction to the pain because it wasn’t sharp, just, noticeable : your hand pauses mid-air and, automatically you flex your left wrist to ground yourself. You’re still half-asleep, focused on having coffee, existing on autopilot. There’s faint tightening in your joints that you don’t fully register as unusual. Ghost sets his mug down. You turn slightly.

"…What?"

He doesn’t answer, just looks at your wrist. You follow his gaze again and frown. Ghost nods once in your direction, as if confirming a variable and his gaze raises to your face.

"You should rest," he says simply.

You give him a look.

"I am, it’s the summer holidays."

Ghost hums that faint, noncommittal sound again.

That evening, you are sitting cross-legged on the couch while Ghost is scrolling on his phone. At some point you both stopped moving away from each other automatically. A book is balanced against your thigh and you are reading a page while talking into your phone, recording a voice message for your friend Ivy. He hasn’t asked anything about her yet.

"No, because if you frame gothic femininity exclusively through repression then you completely erase agency…"

Ghost’s phone starts vibrating, he ignores the call. You continue, undisturbed :

"And then everyone acts surprised when women start writing monstrosity as liberation but obviously they would because the body becomes symbolic and…"

Ghost starts typing something and opens his mouth :

"You’re arguing about dead people."

You look up immediately.

"She started it."

Ghost sends his message with a noncommittal hum addressed to you.

"…You were listening."

He finally looks up from his phone.

"You’re loud."

You narrow your eyes and this time, in the corner of where you assume is his mouth moves slightly beneath the mask.

The mask itself has become less strange over time. It’s not less noticeable but you simply integrated it. At first, it had felt impossible not to stare or startle. Now it has become part of the apartment’s silhouette. You stopped reacting automatically when he enters rooms completely covered and you startle less when he appears in doorways without a sound.

Sighing, you go back to your aggressively annotating thoughts in the margins of a book that is precariously balanced on your thigh. You set down your phone and reach absently for your mug without looking, missing it slightly. Ghost catches it before it tips. You murmur a distracted thanks before continuing your writing.

The fact that a heavily masked military officer silently prevented your coffee from spilling in a shared apartment born from bureaucratic fraud doesn’t seem to phase you at all.
Ghost watches you for a moment afterward and realises, albeit late, that you stopped treating him like something alarming probably days, if not weeks ago.

He migrates to the kitchen without another word, clearly fleeing that thought.

You come to sit at the counter with your laptop open because you started following him absentmindedly every time he goes to the kitchen now, reading glasses slipping slightly down your nose while you scan through articles students sent you for their thesis with visible disappointment.

"This sentence means nothing," you mutter.

Ghost is at the stove behind you.

"Hm."

"She cited three theorists and somehow still said absolutely nothing."

Ghost stirs the pan once.

"You say that often."

"Because it keeps happening."

You rub your wrist absently while highlighting something aggressively on-screen and he notices immediately. The movement still isn’t dramatic but now, he tracks it automatically. His small glance comes with a quick assessment : frequency lower now, good. He goes back to cooking. You finally close the laptop with a sigh and lean on the counter to investigate the food. Ghost shifts slightly to block your path on instinct. You stare at him in confusion.

"…Are you guarding the pan?"

"Yes."

"Unbelievable."

"Hm."

You lean around him anyway, trying to inspect the sauce.

"…Wait."

Ghost says nothing. You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

"Is that soy cream?"

"Yes."

"You changed a recipe."

"You said dairy increases inflammation."

Ghost keeps stirring calmly like he didn’t just casually reveal he has been memorising dietary triggers. You stare at him for a few seconds.

"…You remembered that."

Ghost glances at you once.

"Yes."

The answer is so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that it catches you off guard. His tone doesn’t carry any emotion or performance, he just integrated something new into his operational understanding of the apartment. Of you.
You lean lightly against the counter.

"…You don’t have to do that."

Ghost looks genuinely confused by the statement.

"It improves symptoms."

"Only sometimes."

"That’s enough."

Your chest tightens strangely at that because he says it like adjusting his behaviour around you is the most obvious thing in the world, without resentment or sighing tolerance. He’s just… adaptating. You look away first.

"…Okay."

His sleeves are rolled to his forearms and you you catch yourself watching his hands. Large. Scarred. Tendons are shifting beneath the skin. Veins are becoming more visible when he crushes a garlic clove to put it in the pan.
Ridiculous.

Ghost plates the food carefully : balanced portions, measured precisely. You watch him for a second and decide to antagonise him in an attempt to get rid of your irritating thoughts.

"You cook like a military spreadsheet."

Ghost sets your plate down in front of you.

"You cook like a chemical accident."

"I don't."

"You nearly destroyed the pan yesterday."

"I flambéed it."

"It caught fire."

"That's the point of flambéing something."

Ghost finally sits across from you and you take a bite. Your eyes widen slightly at the taste.

"…Oh, this is really good."

Ghost digs in as well but doesn’t show any visible reaction. You point your fork at him.

"That was smug silence."

"Hm."

"That’s yes."

Ghost remains perfectly composed which, unfortunately confirms it further.

Later that evening, you are both on the couch watching The Walking Dead again. Your legs are tucked under a blanket. Ghost sits beside you with a book he has not turned a page in for fifteen minutes because the episode has his full attention despite his ongoing denial. On-screen, characters are arguing loudly in the middle of a dangerous situation and Ghost looks offended.

"Why are they shouting?"

"Because, television."

"That would attract everything nearby."

"Yes dear, zombies are famously defeated by indoor voices."

Ghost ignores the sarcasm.

"They should clear buildings in pairs."

You grin.

"You’ve thought about this extensively."

"Hm."

"That means yes."

On-screen, a character makes another terrible decision, making Ghost exhale sharply through his nose.

"Incompetent."

You laugh softly then, wince. It’s small and barely visible but his head turns towards you before you even fully process the movement yourself.

"What?"

Your eyes stay glued to the screen.

"…you're funny."

Ghost’s eyes narrow slightly.
However, soon, the show becomes a problem because you both have opinions, very strong ones.

"This man is going to die," Ghost says flatly.

"You say that about everyone."

"Because they keep making poor tactical decisions."

"He’s grieving."

"He’s loud."

"That’s not a crime."

"In apocalypse conditions it is."

You snort into your coffee. Ghost glances at the mug immediately.

"You’re drinking coffee at night again."

You pause.

"…Maybe."

"You won’t sleep."

"I never sleep properly anyway."

Ghost hums quietly, neither agreeing nor dismissing. On-screen, a character opens a door without checking properly and Ghost visibly tenses.

"See? Idiotic."

You laugh softly.

"You are deeply emotionally invested for someone who called this rubbish at first."

"It is rubbish."

"You care about them surviving."

"They’re incompetent."

You grin.

"You still care."

Ghost goes quiet and, at this point, it is basically confirmation.

The following day, Ghost almost doesn’t recognise the pattern immediately when you come home.
It's not because you look drastically different but because you look... softened. You seem less assembled somehow.
It’s 8.30pm which is later than you usually come home.

Ghost is already in the flat, sitting in the armchair with a book open but unread for the last ten minutes because the building pipes are making strange noises again when you unlock the door and step inside quietly. Immediately, chlorine wafts in with you, clean, sharp and unmistakable. Ghost looks up automatically.

Your hair is damp. It’s not fully wet anymore, but heavy with leftover moisture, curls darker than usual and clinging slightly around your face and neck. Your sports bag is hanging from your shoulder. Oversized hoodie and jogger pants again. Your cheeks are slightly pink from night air and residual exertion. For the first time since he met you you look... just tired and soft, human. Not carefully structured into elegant blazers and layered intelligence or hidden in your oversized clothing, even if you are wearing a set of those. You stop when you notice him looking.

"…What?"

Ghost realises he’s been staring half a second too long.

"You’re late."

"Pool was busy."

Your voice sounds different too, it’s quieter, looser around the edges somehow : fatigue seems to have stripped some of the sharpness from it. You aim for the kitchen immediately. Ghost hears cupboards opening while he goes back to his book before he hears :

"…Did you drink the last oat milk?"

"I used it this morning."

There’s a long pause at that, before your voice surges again.

"Ghost."

Ghost looks up instantly and you freeze because you’ve never called him like that yet, with this name. Slowly, you lean your forehead against the fridge to try and diffuse it.

"…That is so emotionally devastating."

Ghost stares at you for two full seconds.
"…There’s more in the cupboard."

You lift your head immediately.

"Oh."

You turn and open the lower cupboard, three cartons are waiting for you there.

"Never mind then."

Ghost watches you move around the kitchen after that and something clicks into place physically. Your shoulders hold a certain broadness compared to your frame. He catches on the definition in your arms when you push your sleeves up and sees muscle memory in the way you move even while exhausted. It’s efficient musculature, not gym-trained but built through repetition and endurance instead of aesthetics. He notices it most when you reach upward into the cupboard : the long line of your back stretching beneath the hoodie and your shoulders moving smoothly despite the underlying stiffness he now knows to look for.

There’s strength there. It’s not obvious, but it’s buried like the kind built young.

"You eat after swimming?" Ghost asks eventually.

You blink at him from kitchen island like you didn’t expect conversation.

"Usually yes."

"That wasn’t an answer."

You stare at him briefly before sighing, almost defeated.

"…I forgot."

Ghost exhales slowly through his nose and, without comment, he gets up and moves toward the stove. You watch him with slight confusion as he starts reheating leftovers from dinner.

"I can do it," you say automatically.

"You look half-dead."

"I always look half-dead after swimming."

"Not always."

You consider that.

"…Fair."

The apartment settles into quiet again after that. You are perched at the counter eating reheated food slowly while your damp curls continue drying unevenly around your face. Ghost is making tea beside you.
Chlorine is lingering faintly in the warm kitchen air and for reasons he doesn’t fully examine yet, that version of you, softened by exhaustion, wrapped in oversized fabric, smelling faintly like pool water and cold air stays in his head much longer than it should.

***

Early august comes in and you arrive home one evening from the library to find sweaters folded properly, delicate blouses air drying separately and socks paired with alarming precision on the kitchen table, waiting to be put in their drawer. You stare at the neat piles on the couch then at Ghost reading in the armchair.

"…Did you reorganise the laundry system?"

"Hm."

"You assigned categories."

"Hm."

"You scare me a little."

Ghost turns a page calmly.

"You were one wash cycle away from destroying half your wardrobe."

The strange part is that you don’t mind : his precision fills gaps you barely notice yourself. Neither of you discusses the arrangement, it simply stabilises.

Rainy weekends become something else entirely. There’s no specific activity but there is now systematic presence.

The apartment gets dim with overcast light, candles burn softly and rain is tapping against windows for hours. You write on the couch with your legs tucked under you and Ghost reads nearby. Sometimes neither of you speaks for nearly an hour and yet the silence feels occupied now because it’s shared and warm. At times you glance up from your laptop and find him already looking at you like he’s checking, the same way he checks doors, windows, stove burners and what’s left in the fridge. You tell yourself it’s like an environmental confirmation. You’ve become part of his internal flat map, or his inventory. It’s just like he organises the kitchen cupboards after you come back from the shop.
Tea stock.
Canned food.
Protein bars.
Dry goods aligned with almost military neatness.
And now, apparently, you.

You watch him one evening while putting vegetables away.

"You inventory the kitchen."

"Hm."

"In case of what?"

"In case we run out."

"We can always buy more food."

"That requires leaving the flat again."

You snort softly before you notice him checking expiry dates with complete seriousness and rotating the products on the shelf.

"Are you psychologically incapable of not preparing for catastrophe?"

"Yes."

He’s being honest and immediate. You laugh so suddenly you nearly drop the oranges. Ghost catches one automatically before it hits the floor. You stare at him. He stares back, then places it calmly into the fruit bowl like nothing happened.

Little by little, without either of you acknowledging it directly, domesticity stops feeling temporary. It is not forced proximity anymore nor two people sharing practical space, it’s something quieter that was built through : shared routines repeated often enough to become instinct.

As you’re finally settling into your peace, John says he’s coming over. He does it three days in advance, not because he is polite but because Ghost threatened him when he was calling you to ask if you were at home.

"You are not showing up unannounced."

Soap had laughed directly in his face over the phone.

"I’m in the vicinity ! What, scared your fake wife’ll witness your tragic ability to host?"

"Hm."

"That’s a yes."

Ghost hangs up on him afterward, with your phone. You are openly smiling when he hands it back to you.

"Funny."

"He’s loud."

"That’s not a criticism."

"It is."

You grin.

"He’s still coming, on Saturday."

Ghost stares at you for a second before saying :

"You invited him."

"You said I could have friends over."

"Hm."

"He's your friend too. You can still revoke my apartment privileges if you want."

Ghost looks deeply unimpressed by the phrase apartment privileges.

"Too late now," which, is not exactly enthusiasm but it’s not refusal either.

***

Saturday arrives grey and rainy. You’re in the kitchen when the intercom buzzes. Ghost is already standing before the second buzz even happens. You glance up from the coffee machine. He presses the intercom button.

"Yes?"

John’s voice crackles through immediately.

"Open up, ye miserable bastard, it’s a sauna out there."

Ghost buzzes him in. You hear him climbing the stairs before the apartment door even opens and he barrels inside carrying pastry boxes and grocery bags like he’s supplying a small village.

"There we go," he announces. "Civilisation."

You laugh immediately. Ghost shuts the door behind him. John points at the balaclava.

"Still wearin’ that in the flat?"

"Yes."

"Psychotic."

"Hm."

He drops the bags onto the counter and immediately hands you one of the pastry boxes.

"Peace offering."

You open it and your face brightens instantly.

"Oh my god."

"Aye, I remembered the pistachio ones."

"You’re my favourite person."

"I know your weaknesses, haven't changed since school lass."

You laugh, fully, not the softer quieter version Ghost usually gets. This one is immediate, easy and old. Ghost watches your interactions silently. You and Soap move around each other without hesitation, talking over one another naturally.

It is the first time Ghost sees you fully unguarded socially. You’re constantly interrupting Soap, he interrupts you back and neither of you minds. Soap sprawls across the couch immediately like he’s lived there for years. Ghost sits in the armchair with visible restraint. You remain between both worlds naturally, perched sideways on the couch with coffee in hand. Conversation starts easy thanks to Soap provoking reactions from both of you for entertainment.

"You two still weirdly formal with each other?"

You roll your eyes immediately.

"He alphabetised the medicine cabinet."

Soap turns slowly toward Ghost.

"You what?"

Ghost looks completely unbothered.

"It was inefficient."

Soap stares at him for a full second then bursts out laughing.

"That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard."

"It absolutely is not," you protest.

Ghost looks vaguely offended by the entire conversation. John points between both of you.

"You’re doing domestic nonsense."

"We are cohabitating efficiently," Ghost says flatly.

"That sounded even more married somehow."

You laugh into your coffee. Ghost notices the sound immediately. That easy laughter again, the kind you haven’t quite given him yet. Instead of irritating him it makes him quieter, even more observant.

At some point the conversation drifts toward your work. You know John does this deliberately, every time. Ghost notices almost immediately there’s an intention there too.

"So," he says casually, reaching for another pastry, "tell Ghost about the corpse thing."

You narrow your eyes.

"You know what it’s called."

"Aye. But hearing ye explain it sounds like a documentary possessed by caffeine."

You point accusingly at him.

"You’re mocking me."

"Correct."

You turn toward Ghost instead.

"He does this on purpose."

Ghost’s gaze flicks briefly between both of you.

"…Does it work?"

Soap looks delighted.

"Oh, he’s learning."

You sigh dramatically before immediately starting to explain anyway. You start talking with your hands almost immediately : historical funerary rituals, political symbolism and the cultural meaning of bodily preservation.

Ghost watches the transformation happen in real time. You become brighter while speaking, faster. Your entire face changes around enthusiasm and your upper body becomes animated. Soap sits there looking deeply entertained, not by the subject itself but by you. Ghost notices that too. John encourages you further.

"So the church thought incorruptibility meant holiness, right?"

You light up instantly.

"Yes! But the interesting part is that it becomes politically useful afterward because…"

You launch fully into the explanation. Ghost listens silently from the armchair, actually listening. After a while, he realises something unsettling : he doesn’t mind it at all. The rambling. The tangents. The academic intensity.Most people exhaust him but somehow you don’t, even when you’re talking nonstop, especially then, maybe.

He gets up to the kitchen to make more tea. Soap joins him briefly.
You stay in the living room with your half-finished coffee, still talking in the living room now to yourself while trying to find a citation in one of your books.
Ghost can hear you muttering:

"No, it’s not in in this one. What was the title again…?"

Soap leans against the counter beside him.

"She likes ye."

Ghost keeps pouring water.

"Hm."

"I’m serious."

Ghost says nothing. Soap watches him for a second.

"Ye know she’s being quieter for your sake, right?"

That gets Ghost’s attention immediately. Soap nods toward the living room.

"She’s usually worse."

You call from the couch immediately:

"I HEARD THAT."

Soap grins.

"See?"

Ghost looks toward the living room. You’re still searching through your notes, annoyed expression softening the second you catch him looking. For a moment, something settles strangely in Ghost’s chest. He suddenly understands that none of your restraint around him has been distance, it was consideration. You have been making space for him since the beginning, quietly and without asking for recognition. Ghost looks away first.

When you all settle back in the living room, he starts reacting a little more to the conversation, and maintains it throughout the next days.

***

Things start evolving slowly after that, in layers so small neither of you notices when the change begins.
The routines settle, expectations weave in and the apartment switches to being a place you both occupy to something more.

Ghost starts waking up and not immediately leaving the room because there is no reason to move instantly anymore.

You are there but he’s not trying to create space between you out of necessity anymore. Usually you’re already half-awake, curled slightly under the blanket, hair messy in a way that suggests sleep did not fully resolve itself. He starts gathering his clothes, watching you for a few seconds before you realise he’s doing it. You always notice him eventually.

"…Morning," you mumble.

He answers the same way every time.

"Hm."

After that, you get ready, like parallel systems warming up.
The bathroom stops being two separate worlds after a while. Nothing is said about it but logistics just become easier that way.

At first, it is carefully partitioned.
Ghost removes his balaclava in the shower and  puts it back before stepping out. As you brush your teeth and wash your own face, you know there is water and steam and someone trying to unclench around the fact that he’s barefaced while you are still in the room. So you do your thing with practiced indifference, learning to ignore the idea that he is showering a meter away. At first, you’re hyper-aware of it but, slowly, you stop because nothing happens.

It is just routine.

Water.
Steam.
The familiar rhythm of morning hygiene.

At some point, you start handing him things without looking like his towel or extra shampoo.

Then, you start talking while you work in your skin serum, not to him directly at first but just into the space.

"…I think summer is the opportunity for me to do a caffeine detox."

He answers from behind the curtain:

"Hm."

"You agree or you’re judging me?"

"Both."

That becomes normal : those brief exchanges through steam and tile. And the unspoken rule forms on its own: you leave before he comes out. He gets privacy to reset. You get the bedroom to dress yourself for the day.

The first time you change with him present, it is not framed as a moment. It is just the end of a long day and you are tired. He is already half-turned away, putting on his sleeping t-shirt. He has started doing that lately as the temperatures have risen : sleeping in either a t-shirt and underwear, or shirtless with sleeping pants. It doesn't bother you, although it's pretty funny to see the contrast of skin against the balaclava covering his face.
You remove your sweatpants and sweater to change into your flowy pants and tank top without comment. 

Occasionally, there are brief accidental overlaps of awareness : someone turning too early, someone reaching for something at the same time. However, neither of you turns it into a problem. It becomes just another form of domestic coordination just as passing each other in the kitchen, or sharing a sink. What changes things is not nudity but familiarity and most of it, the absence of reaction and tension on both parts.

The kitchen was already the place where you both had learned to interact but it still deepens. Meals follow the same logic. Ghost cooks, or you cook or you both do, depending on energy levels and work.
He notices when you forget to eat. You notice when he forgets to stop functioning like a soldier on standby.
Neither of you comments much. You just adjust : plate appears in front of you, tea appears beside him, coffee appears beside you without being asked and you start handing him protein bars and fruit snacks without thinking.

At some point, neither of you corrects the other anymore : it has already settled.

All evenings are spent in the living room. The couch becomes the shared endpoint now. He’s not using the armchair anymore. When none of you are reading, the show becomes noise that marks the end of external obligations.

You talk sometimes during episodes. Sometimes you don’t. Ghost comments on tactical failures like it is a professional obligation. You laugh at things you don’t need to explain.
Silence sits between you easily now.

One evening, after you reorganised the bookshelf all afternoon, you find yourself staring at a box you found buried under a pile of papers. Ghost notices you looking at it instead of pressing 'play'.

That’s how most things between you start, in this phase of silent awareness before intention.

"It’s been sitting there for a while," you say, nodding toward the shelf, "A student gifted it to me at the end of the semester."

Ghost glances at it but doesn’t move yet.

"…you want it out?"

You shrug.

"Could be something to do."

Your voice becomes slightly teasing.

"Unless you’ve got operational plans I should know about."

That earns a short exhale from him. Almost a laugh, but not quite willing to fully become one.

"No."

He takes the box down and sets it on the table like it’s mildly suspicious. There’s an awkwardness at first. Neither of you really knows how to occupy the same quiet without stepping on it too hard.

"You’ve done puzzles before?" you ask.

Ghost opens the box, already sorting pieces before answering.

"Yes."

"That’s not a full answer."

He pauses slightly.

"…occasionally."

You nod, accepting it and he returns to sorting. Edges first, of course.
You watch for a moment before reaching in and grabbing a handful of pieces at random. Your start spreading them out just to counterbalance his precision.

Ghost watches that for exactly one second then continues sorting anyway, not correcting you.
It’s the first time you notice it : he doesn’t try to control the environment you create. He integrates it.

Minutes pass and the silence stops feeling like something to manage. It finally becomes something shared. At one point, your hands brush when both of you reach for the same piece making you both pause before continuing as if nothing happened.

"You’re very systematic," you say eventually.

"So are you," he replies immediately.

That makes you look up.

"…I am not systematic."

Ghost glances at you.

"You sorted your side twice already."

You hesitate before answering, quietly :

"That’s just anxiety."

Ghost doesn’t respond to that directly. He just places a piece down. Correct fit.

"…it works," he says instead.

You huff softly.

That should end the conversation. It doesn’t. You find yourself talking more after that. You make small observations, comments, occasional complaints when pieces refuse to cooperate. Ghost doesn’t respond much but more consistently than you realise. At some point, you understand something strange : he’s waiting for you, without any sign of impatience. He’s just aligning his pace to yours without announcing it.
When you slow down, he slows down.
When you speed up, he adjusts.

"You don’t have to match me," you say quietly at one point.

Ghost doesn’t look up.

"I’m not."

He moves a piece across the board before continuing :

"I’m working with you."

You still briefly and the ghost of a smile gets on your lips. You move a piece next to the one he just placed. Perfect fit.
An hour later, you lean back slightly before stretching your fingers absentmindedly.

"We’re done for the night," he says.

You glance at the puzzle. It’s still half-complete and slightly messy, uneven.

"…we’re not finished."

"We can be later."

You hesitate and then nod. He starts putting pieces back in the box carefully like he respects the pause as much as the activity. You watch him for a moment.

"This is… not what I expected."

Ghost pauses slightly.

"What isn’t?"

"This," you say, gesturing vaguely between the table, him, the shared space.

"…you."

He looks at you for a moment. Then continues packing the pieces.

"I’m not complicated," he says.

You almost laugh.

"That’s the most suspicious thing you’ve said all week."

A beat passes and then you hear, very faint :

"…noted."

Somehow, that becomes the first puzzle night as a way to exist together without needing clarity, only presence.

Then, he leaves.
There isn’t any dramatic farewell. He just announces he's leaving on a mission a Saturday and the leaves Sunday night with a bag and a brief glance back when he crosses the door.
You say:

"Stay safe."

He answers:

"Hm."

And then he is gone.

The apartment changes while he is away. The atmosphere becomes too quiet, a different quiet than his silence.
You still work, sleep, eat and exist in it but something feels slightly misaligned. You notice it most in the evenings when there is no second presence in the room absorbing part of the silence.

You catch yourself turning slightly when you hear movement in the hallway.
You catch yourself leaving your mug on the counter where his would be.
You catch yourself cooking slightly less, just assembling meals, not because you can’t but because it feels unnecessary in a way that is harder to define.

A week pass, then two, three, and suddenly, you’re in September, preparing the back-to-uni meetings with your colleagues and for the lectures you’re going to teach starting October.

***

He doesn't announce his return.
When he comes back, it is late. You are on the couch, laptop open, glasses on, hair loosely tied back and wearing an old hoodie you put on without really thinking about it.

There are candles lit. It creates a soft light which is moving across the room.

You look up when the door opens and, for a moment, nothing is said.

Ghost stands in the doorway longer than usual, balaclava on, gear in his bag.
The apartment hits him before anything else does.
It smells of vanilla and warm wax, domestic, unarmored. There’s the low noise of the television in the background. Then the sight of you, on the couch, your reading glasses slightly askew and wearing comfortable clothes, completely unguarded in a way that is only possible in a place that does not require performance. You sit up immediately.

"Hey."

Like he never left. Ghost steps inside and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t move further at first, he just looks. The apartment is exactly as he left it, but somehow entirely different because now it has you in it in a way that is no longer temporary. It is lived in.
His gaze shifts briefly to the kitchen. A mug is there, on the counter. You have another one on the coffee table, still warm this one. He registers all of it without speaking before, finally:

"Hm."

You smile slightly.

"Took you long enough."

Ghost sets his bag down but he still doesn’t fully move into the room. It’s like his body is recalibrating to something it already recognises but hasn’t processed in full. You watch him for a second and ask in a softer tone :

"You okay?"

Ghost answers like it is obvious.

"Yes."

Then, after another beat, his eyes flick briefly back to the couch. To you. Something in his posture shifts. He seems to settle, like a system finding its correct coordinates again. That’s when he finally steps further inside, finally caught up to the fact that he is no longer somewhere else.

You don’t move immediately, you just watch him for a second longer than you normally would. He closes the door, locks it. There’s a pause and then, he exhales. It’s quiet, controlled and something in your chest tightens slightly at that. You understand then that this isn’t exactly the same version of him who left.

You stand slowly. No sudden movement. No intrusion into the space he hasn’t fully re-entered yet.

"Tea?" you ask, aiming for casual.

Ghost doesn’t answer immediately. He takes off his gloves first then his jacket. Each movement is precise, almost automatic.

"Hm," which you take as a yes.

You turn toward the kitchen without any further commentary. No shallow 'how was it', just action.

When you come back, he is still standing, though he has shifted slightly now and is closer to the living room, no longer at the threshold. It’s like he is reoccupying the space in stages. You place the mug on the table in front of him. He looks at it for a second before sitting, over carefully, as if sitting fully requires a commitment.

You don’t comment. You just sit back down on the couch and open your laptop again, giving him room to exist without pressure. The apartment is still quiet, but now it’s a different quiet than usual again. It’s not the domestic silence you had built over the past months, it’s operational silence, because his mind is still partially elsewhere.

You don’t ask. Instead, you get up again. He watches you move toward the kitchen to grab your phone which was charging on the island.

He’s not tracking you like a threat assessment though, so that’s that. He’s just noticing, you think.
You order food for both of you. Something easy and comforting without being too heavy. Then you make him tea again, without asking this time. When you bring it back, you don’t hand it to him immediately. You just set it down within reach and sit back down.

A long silence follows. When the food arrives, you get to the door before the delivery guy can knock, no disturbance. You both start eating and you switch on the television. You put on a movie you've both already seen. Neither of you is really watching it yet. Ghost finally speaks without looking at you.

"You don’t need to do that."

You glance up from your screen.

"Do what?"

His eyes stay forward.

"This."

You consider that, and then you shrug lightly.

"I know." you say and add more quietly: "But I want to."

That lands differently. You don’t push it further. You don’t explain. You just go back to your food.

Much later, he finally sits back more fully. It’s subtle but you notice it immediately. The shift from contained to present. He isn’t fully relaxed yet but he is no longer resisting the space. His tea is half-finished, turned cold now. He doesn’t comment on it and you don’t either. Ghost physically exhales through his nose. You glance sideways immediately.

"What."

"That’s not how you do that."

"What?"

"He would’ve died."

"He does die."

"Hm."

You grin.

"There it is."

"What."

"The monthly Ghost complaint."

"It’s inefficient."

"It’s cinema."

"It’s stupidity."

Yet, he keeps watching until the end, until it’s time for you to get into bed, together.

It’s only later after days like this have started to accumulate that you realise what changed. It isn’t that he becomes more talkative or more expressive.
He doesn’t suddenly become emotionally open, he doesn’t transform.
He lands, in the apartment, into the routines, in the quiet presence you offer without demanding anything in return.

You understand something very clearly after that : he doesn’t just come back here to sleep and spend his time outside of work, he comes back here to stop being whatever he has to be everywhere else. And you, without ever naming it, have become the part of his life where that is allowed.

Still, after the mission, you notice there are moments where his... social finishing layer seems reduced. His responses are shorter at times, minimal phrasing. The "hm" makes a reappearance as confirmation noises. The communication becomes a closed-loop again. You attribute it to fatigue and recovery, post-mission decompression. However, you also notice he doesn’t interpret social interaction the same way in those moments.
Indeed, he responds correctly to instruction cleanly : if you ask him to do something, he does it without friction because his system prioritises clarity over framing right now. It’s like military efficiency carried into domestic space, in your apartment.
He is also watching you differently in those moments.
If you move, his attention follows.
If you stop, he stabilises.
If you leave the room, there’s a slight delay before he resumes whatever he was doing. As if you are a fixed point he uses when everything else is idle.

You don’t have language for it yet so your mind tries to translate it into something familiar but nothing quite fits.

He is not tired in a visible way.
He is not emotional.
He is not absent.

He is just… less socially completed.
Less... finished as a communicative presence.

He looks like a lost baby duck.
The contrast with his balaclava is shocking. A smirk makes its way on your lips at the comparison.

"What?" He asks you from the couch, his eyes squinting.

"Nothing."

On Sunday morning, as rain taps against the windows and the light is grey, Ghost disappears into the laundry alcove for a suspiciously long period of time.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch surrounded by open books and loose papers when he re-emerges holding one of your blazers between two fingers.

"What," he asks flatly, "is this?"

You look up over your glasses.

"…A blazer?"

"It says hand wash."

"And?"

Ghost stares at you.

"You put it in with towels."

You blink once.

"Yes."

There is a long silence.

"You cannot do that."

"It survived."

"That is not the point."

It is, because when he was away you did laundry putting everything together: colours, whites, delicates, blankets, socks, with absolutely no fear.
Ghost looks mildly horrified at the state of the laundry basket deposited in the laundry room.

"You need to sort by fabric," he says eventually.

"I sort by ‘dirty’."

"That explains a lot."

You narrow your eyes.

"My clothes are clean."

"Barely."

Naturally, he takes back the laundry chore without either of you discussing it. He goes back to the laundry room and his voice comes through again :

"Why is there a wool sweater in here with bed linens?"

You look up from your laptop on the couch.

"…Textural diversity."

"That’s not a thing."

"It could be."

"No."

***

A little over a week after they got back from their mission, John decides the two of you need to ‘stop haunting the flat like widows’.
Ghost tells him to fuck off and John takes that as agreement.

That’s why Friday evening finds the three of you in a crowded pub near base, all low lighting, old wood, rugby somewhere in the background, and enough noise that silence isn’t uncomfortable. Ghost sits beside you automatically when you slide into the booth, like tactical habit. The wall is behind him. He has a full view of the room and easy access to exits. John drops into the opposite seat easily. A server comes by for drinks. John orders beer. Ghost does the same.

"Iced orange coffee," you say.

The server nods without even blinking. Ghost, however, goes very still beside you, enough that Soap catches it instantly. He Soap leans back slowly, grinning as the server leaves.

"He looks traumatised."

You glance sideways. Ghost's eyes have narrowed slightly.

"It’s coffee," you say.

"With orange juice," Soap replies.

"Just a bit. And it’s good."

"It’s a hate crime."

You make a face at him. Ghost says nothing which somehow makes it worse. You point accusingly at him.

"Don’t silently judge me."

"Hm."

Soap bursts out laughing.

"Oh, he hates it."

"He hasn’t even tasted it."

"Doesn’t need to."

Ghost finally speaks.

"Coffee should not taste like fruit."

"It doesn’t."

"Doubt it."

You scoff and wave dismissively. When your drinks come in, he still doesn't look convinced. You dig through your bag and ask Ghost at the same time :

"Want a straw ?"

He stares at you for a few seconds in silence so you decide to clarify.

"To drink. So you don't remove your mask."

"No."

Soap cackles at that.

"You don't drink beer with a straw lass."

You understand why they chose a bar near base then : him wearing a balaclava isn't too alarming when surrounded by military and he can raise it above his mouth to drink and still stay mostly covered. You shrug and take the collapsible straw always packed in your bag for yourself. The evening settles after that into easy conversation.

Soap is bouncing between stories from base and deliberately provoking your academic tangents because he enjoys watching you spiral into increasingly specific historical outrage. Ghost mostly listens. Occasionally he contributes something dry enough to make Soap choke on his drink.

You see more of him outside the apartment too. Here, under pub lighting and background noise, there’s more visible edge to him : it’s physicality. The size of him becomes more obvious outside your apartment’s familiar scale.
Broad shoulders under dark fabric.
Heavy forearms resting against the table.
The tattoo sleeve partially visible where his sleeves shift. And his hands… large, strong.

Other people notice him too. You catch women glancing toward him more than once.
He ignores every single one, completely.

Soap starts complaining dramatically about one of his coworkers like he’s recounting a war crime instead of paperwork. You’re now curled slightly around the drink that Ghost still privately considers an act of psychological warfare. Soap notices him looking at it again.

"Still horrified by her weird little potions?"

Ghost looks away from the glass.

"It’s coffee and orange juice."

"Aye," Soap says. "And somehow she’s been drinking that since university."

You shrug.

"It’s refreshing."

Soap laughs loudly. You make a face at him over the rim of your glass and then Soap pauses suddenly. He looks at you more carefully and notices your damp hair from earlier.

"You still swimming regularly?"

The question lands differently. It’s less casual, there’s old familiarity underneath it. You lean back slightly.

"Hm. Mostly."

"Mostly," Soap repeats skeptically.

You continue before Soap can start lecturing.

"I go two or three times a week when work isn’t catastrophic."

Soap narrows his eyes.

"That’s not what I asked."

You sigh softly.

"I still swim, John."

"Mm."

Ghost glances between both of you and Soap points at you accusingly.

"She used to overdo it constantly."

You groan immediately.

"Oh my God."

"She’d swim on injuries," Soap continues happily. "Like an absolute psychopath."

"I was on a team."

"You had a fever once."

"It was regionals."

Ghost finally looks at you properly.

"You competed?"

You shrug like it’s irrelevant.

"A few years, was young."

Soap snorts.

"She was terrifying."

You look offended.

"I was not terrifying."

"You absolutely were. Elongated little thing swimming like you were being hunted for sport."

Ghost feels something shift slightly at that image : it’s like a new information slotting into place. You. Younger. Wet hair. Competitive focus. Driving yourself into the ground silently.
It fits too easily.
Soap continues, leaning back now.

"She was good too. Like genuinely good. Coaches loved her."

You wave a hand dismissively.

"I stopped ages ago."

"Because your body started fighting you every other week," Soap says bluntly.

A small silence follows. It isn’t uncomfortable but it’s just the effect of truth being stripped bare. Ghost still says nothing but now pieces connect differently in his head: the fatigue, the stiffness, the injections, how swimming remained and how missing it probably matters.
You tap condensation absently from your glass.

"It still helps."

Soap’s expression softens slightly.

"Aye. I know."

He becomes lighter again after that :

"Still smell like chlorine after?"

You give him a deadpan look.

"What? It’s true."

Ghost watches the tiny embarrassment flash across your face for the first time all evening. Interesting. Soap grins wickedly.

"Used to walk around wrapped in those massive hoodies smelling like an abandoned swimming pool."

You point at him threateningly.

"I know where you live."

"And you live with Lieutenant Creepy over there now, hen. I’m protected."

Ghost ignores him. Soap takes another sip of beer and his expression shifts slightly again, light but softer around the edges.

"Still remember the diving board thing."

Your shoulders tighten just a fraction, not enough for most people to notice but Ghost notices. You sigh.

"John."

"What? It was horrifying."

"You are literally smiling while saying that."

"Aye, because if I don’t laugh about it now I’ll start feeling seventeen again and develop stress hives."

That pulls a reluctant laugh from you. Soap looks toward Ghost.

"She collapsed during training."

Ghost’s attention sharpens immediately. Soap gestures vaguely at you with his bottle.

"She’d been acting weird for weeks before that. Exhausted all the time. Kept saying she was fine."

You mumble into your drink:

"I thought I was fine."

"You thought surviving on caffeine and spite counted as stability."

Ghost’s eyes flick briefly toward you at that. That sounds familiar already. Soap continues, quieter now.

"She decided to finish training anyway."

You immediately protest.

"It was almost over."

"You nearly passed out in the pool before that."

"I did not…"

"You swam into the lane divider twice."

You stop talking. Soap gives Ghost a look over the table.

"See?"

Then back to you again.

"You got out, climbed up on the diving block because apparently leaving like a normal person wasn’t dramatic enough…"

"I wasn’t…"

"…and then just dropped."

Ghost’s gaze lifts fully now. Your expression has gone distant in the way it does sometimes when memory becomes physical. Soap notices too. His tone softens another degree.

"…hit the edge of the pool on the way down."

Your fingers rub absentmindedly at your left wrist now.

"Broken wrist," Soap says quietly. "Scared the hell out of everybody."

You look down into your drink.

"It wasn’t that dramatic."

Soap immediately snorts.

"You fainted in a public facility and came up bleeding, hen."

Finally, you laugh softly.

"Aye."

Ghost says nothing for a while. He’s looking at your wrist now, connecting things again. Soap leans back again eventually, letting the heaviness dissipate on purpose.

"That was the first time she discovered doctors become very interested in you when you collapse dramatically enough."

You point at him tiredly.

"You are genuinely evil."

"I’m hilarious."

"You’re Scottish. It’s hard to tell the difference."

Soap gasps theatrically in offense.

"So are you lass."

Ghost huffs a laugh before he can stop himself. Both of you turn toward him immediately. Soap points across the table triumphantly.

"There! He’s showing emotions!"

Ghost regrets everything instantly. You grin into your drink and change the subject while Ghost finds his attention drifting repeatedly to your left wrist resting against the glass and the absent little motion of your fingers rubbing over old pain like your body remembers things before you do.
He is interrupted when a server arrives carrying a bright cocktail overloaded with crushed ice and syrup.

"For the lady," she says.

You blink. Soap immediately starts grinning. Ghost’s eyes lift from his beer toward the opposite side of the bar where a man gives a little nod in your direction.
You look at the drink, then at Soap, and slide the cocktail directly toward him.

"Congratulations."

Soap laughs so hard he nearly spills his beer.

"You are evil."

"I won't drink that."

"It’s pink."

"It’s liquid inflammation."

Ghost watches the exchange silently and his attention shifts slightly toward the man at the bar.
A few minutes later, the man approaches, drunk enough to mistake persistence for charm.

"I bought that for you," he says.

You look up calmly.

"Yes. Thank you."

His eyes flick toward Soap holding the cocktail.

"Right. Why did you give it away then ?"

"I am not interested."

The man laughs once, short and disbelieving.

"What, not even gonna talk to me?"

"I am talking to you," you reply, your expression staying perfectly composed.

Soap physically turns away at that point because he’s trying not to laugh again. The man notices Ghost beside you then, silent and impossible to read.

"What, your boyfriend doesn’t let you drink?"

You tilt your head slightly.

"No. I am just not interested."

He opens his mouth again anyway. You cut him off before he can continue.

"And we’re married."

The man’s entire posture changes immediately, recalibrating ownership dynamics in real time.

"Oh."

You watch the understanding happen with visible irritation.

"Yeah," you say flatly.

Just like that, he backs off, mumbles something and leaves. 
There’s silence for about three seconds after he disappears, that’s when Soap loses it completely. He actually bends forward laughing.

"Oh, that was brilliant."

You look offended.

"It wasn’t."

"It worked."

"That’s the problem."

Ghost says nothing, still seated beside you exactly as before. His eyes flick briefly toward you. You lean back in the booth with a frustrated exhale. Soap wipes at his eyes.

"Why would it be a problem?"

"The fact that ‘I’m not interested’ means nothing, but ‘another man has already claimed me’ suddenly becomes understandable."

Soap points vaguely at you.

"Oh no. She’s activating."

"I am activating."

Ghost takes another sip of his beer, unperturbed, like he’s already accepted what’s about to happen. You gesture sharply with one hand as you continue.

"It’s literally historical ownership logic. Women being socially contextualised through male possession structures can be traced back centuries through property law, inheritance systems, lineage control…"

Soap groans loudly.

"There she goes."

"…and you can follow it through medieval marriage contracts almost directly because women were fundamentally linked to land transmission and dynastic stability…"

"Horrifyingly," Soap says to Ghost, "this is what she sounds like recreationally."

Ghost’s gaze shifts toward you again.

You are fully animated again, not the soft domestic figure in oversized sweaters and fuzzy socks. You’re sharper, warmer, and… pretty in a way he had not consciously processed before because until now you have mostly existed to him as proximity and routine. However, here, in the dim pub lighting, with your hair slightly messy from the pool and your expression alive with intellectual outrage, he realises other men notice you. Beside him, Soap is still laughing while stealing sips from the unwanted cocktail.

"You know," Soap says eventually, "most people just say ‘fuck off’ in these situations."

You look offended.

"That's just lazy and unnecessarily vulgar."

"Hm," Ghost says quietly beside you.

You point at him immediately.

"See? He understands me."

Ghost takes another sip of beer. He does not deny it.

That night when you get back, Ghost decides to launch a washing machine cycle with the resigned efficiency of a man diffusing explosives. He pauses mid-gesture because tangled in one of the towels is your black swimsuit. He’s seen it before, functional and not particularly revealing. Ghost would not normally think twice about it. Except this time, when he picks it up, something contextual finally locks into place.

He’s seen your body in fragments already through shared bathroom timings or when changing for bed without ceremony. However, it is always in pieces. It was never assembled into understanding. Now his brain starts connecting details properly : the long muscle lines, the way your posture changes when tired, the endurance hidden underneath everything.
Ghost folds the swimsuit carefully and sets it aside to wash it separately. A strange image surfaces in his mind uninvited : you cutting through water in perfect silence.

"You’re staring at the laundry like it insulted your bloodline," you say absently from the couch.

Ghost looks over immediately.

"You ruined another jumper."

"That’s between me and God."

"You don’t believe in God."

"That’s what makes this situation so serious."

Ghost snorts quietly before he can stop himself and you look absurdly pleased with yourself and hopping into the shower. After he’s done, he settles into bed and starts scrolling on his phone while waiting for you.

The shower has been running for a while.

He raises his head when you come out of the ensuite bathroom and genuinely thinks he's imagining things.
The two of you have been living together for months, long enough to establish routines but apparently not long enough to know each other. You share a flat, your life after work, a marriage certificate.
He knows a few things about you by now : how you annotate articles in three different colours, go swimming when you feel the need, own an absurd number of books, forget meals when you're researching, can spend forty minutes explaining medieval herb gardens without noticing, have an unhealthy relationship with coffee, are able to mix chaos and structure in an absurd way. You are, in his eyes, the kind of woman who should logically have ink stains on her fingers, extremely academic. Which is why the sight makes him pause. It somehow doesn't fit the image he'd built.

Steam follows you into the bedroom.
You're towel-drying your hair without paying attention to him and, because you're at home and because you’ve been sleeping side by side long enough that modesty has become impractical, so you're dressed only in an oversized t-shirt. Your usual sweatpants are nowhere in sight. The t-shirt stops halfway down your thighs and his brain takes a second to process what he’s seeing.

Ink.

A lot of ink.

He doesn’t freeze because he's never seen tattoos before. His own arm is covered. Most of the men he's worked with have at least one. It's because the tattoo belongs to you. It’s not discreet either. He wonders how he could have missed it after a summer living together and immediately blames your sweatpants and the flowy suit trousers you wear when you go out.

An entire leg.

His eyes follow it automatically from the edge visible beneath the shirt and down, down, further down.

Black lines.

Shading.

Detailed work.

A complete piece.
He lowers his phone slowly.

"...Christ."

You glance over, still drying your hair.

"What?"

He points, not particularly elegantly and your gaze follows his.

"Hm?"

Apparently you had forgotten.

"The tattoo?"

"The tattoo," he repeats.

You shrug, still drying your hair.

"Yes."

The answer is so casual it almost annoys him.

"That's not a tattoo."

One eyebrow rises.

"No?"

"That's a bloody mural."

That gets an actual laugh out of you which makes him stare harder because now he's curious.

"How long?"

You understand immediately.

"The sessions?"

He nods.

"A year and a half."

His eyebrows lift.

"A year and a half?"

"Mm."

You continue drying your hair, entirely unconcerned, but Ghost is still looking.
The piece is beautiful, painfully detailed. It’s the kind of work people commit to. It’s not impulsive nor decorative, it’s intentional, which suddenly feels more like you.

"What is it?"

You glance down, considering.

"A mixture of things."

He waits. You sigh.

"Medieval illustrations. Some medicinal herbs.Anatomical sketches. Woodcut-style artwork."

Ghost rubs a hand across his face.

"You've managed to turn an entire leg into a history dissertation."

That earns another laugh.

"Pretty much."

The room settles again. You sit on the edge of the bed, discarding the towel now that your hair is dry enough, apparently still completely unaware of the effect this conversation is having.
Ghost isn't looking at the tattoo anymore. He's looking at what it means. He'd assumed your relationship with your body was complicated after the discussion at the pub. Careful. Fragile. Defined mostly by illness.

However, this says something else entirely. It’s about commitment, ownership and choice.
Someone doesn't sit through dozens of hours of tattooing by accident.
Someone doesn't cover an entire leg without deciding : this body is mine.
Suddenly he understands something. He’s not sure of it yet but the hunch is enough : the poised academic who looks like she belongs in an archive, the one who discusses medieval manuscripts in oversized sweatpants over breakfast, there is steel underneath all of it.

For a moment he wonders how many people ever get to see this version of you. Then he realises, strangely, that he's one of them.
The thought sits somewhere uncomfortable in his chest, unexpected.

You finally catch him still looking.

"What?"

Ghost looks away immediately.

"Nothing." He answers out of habit, and then he decides to add : "It's good work."

You smile, small but genuine.

"Thank you."

For some reason that simple smile affects him more than the tattoo ever did.