83. Return

Ghost's Flat, North London – 18:47

The key turned in the lock with a quiet click.

Ghost didn't open the door all the way. He just stepped aside, one hand resting lightly on the edge, and tilted his head toward the space beyond.

"Go on." he said — low and rough. Not a command. An invitation.

I stepped in slowly.

The air inside was still. Heavy in the lungs. Like the flat had been holding its breath since the day we left. Nothing had changed. Same coat on the hook. Same scuff by the table. Same faint tick of the old wall clock above the stove.

I said nothing. Just knelt to untie my boots, fingers dragging across the laces. The silence wasn't awkward—it was thick. Full. Like a room filled with shadows that hadn't moved.

Ghost stepped in behind me, closing the door with a quiet push. His boots didn't thud like mine had. He moved softer. Always did.

He passed into the kitchen, filled the kettle, turned it on without a word.

I shrugged off my jacket and folded it over the back of the couch. Dropped my duffel beside it. Everything felt mechanical. But it was still a relief—letting go of the weight. Of the dirt. Of the ghosts.

He didn't ask if I wanted tea. He just made it. Because he knew. And because he always did.

I stood in the low lamplight, arms crossed, watching the steam rise. I could feel him watching too. Not directly—never directly. Always just to the side. Like if he looked too long, something inside might crack.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I said eventually. My voice sounded strange in the quiet.

Ghost nodded without looking up. "Water pressure's still shit."

My mouth twitched. A flicker of a smile.

"Doesn't matter."

Ghost's Flat, North London – 18:52

The bedroom door creaked open like it always had. Neat. Dim. Familiar.

His scent lingered—clean soap, gun oil, mint. It hit me low in the chest. Not like a memory, but like gravity.

I paused, fingers tightening on the strap of my duffel. Then stepped inside. The air felt still. Heavy. Like the room had been waiting, untouched.

I moved toward the closet. His shirts were there—folded, stacked, lined like soldiers on leave. I stared at them for a moment longer than I meant to. Then reached out.

Charcoal grey. Long-sleeved. Worn soft at the collar. It smelled like him. Like home.

I turned to leave, shirt draped over my arm—then paused in the doorway.

He was standing there. Still. Silent. Leaning against the wall, one shoulder braced against the frame. Watching.

He said nothing.

Neither did I.

Our eyes met for the briefest second — and then, as I passed him in the narrow hall, his hand brushed mine.

"You all right?" he asked, voice low.

"I will be," I said. "After the shower."

A pause.

Then, quietly—so quietly I nearly missed it—

"You can stay in there as long as you need."

I nodded.

That was all. But it was enough.

Ghost's Flat, North London – 19:02

The water hit hot and hard against the tiles.

I stood under the stream, head bowed, fingers pressed to the wall. Too hot—but I didn't care. I wanted to burn it off.

Warsaw. Dragovich. Spectre's voice. Koldun's laugh. Cipher's scream. The taste of blood. Ember's eyes. The Wolves I left behind.

The weight of everything we'd ended. The fear of what still remained. And Ghost's voice.

Then we'll go.

It didn't rinse clean. Not really. But I stayed until my skin stung.

By the time I stepped out, the mirror was fogged. I didn't wipe it. I didn't want to see what was left behind the steam.

I pulled the shirt over damp skin. It fell low, loose in the sleeves, hem brushing my thighs. Ghost was a behemoth of a man. In his clothes, I felt... small. Tethered. Like I belonged somewhere.

Like I belonged to someone.

Ghost's Flat, North London – 19:17

The hallway was dim.

My bare feet were quiet against the floor, the shirt clinging damp to my skin. I moved like a shadow toward the kitchen, drawn by warmth and quiet.

Ghost was at the counter. Back to me. Shoulders broad and still beneath the hooded sweatshirt.

The light above the stove caught the steam curling from the kettle. Gold on grey. Silence thick between us.

He turned slightly. Didn't say anything at first. Then—

"Mug's ready."

He handed it to me without looking.

I took it with both hands, fingers brushing his gloved ones. A spark of warmth. A tether.

"Thank you." I said softly.

He just nodded.

I sat on the couch. Curled around the tea. Bitter, milky, grounding. He made it just the way I liked.

He moved past me toward the bedroom. I heard the closet open, the low drag of a zipper, the familiar creak of hinges. Then the bathroom door clicked shut. Water again. The dull hiss of the shower. Familiar now. A rhythm we knew.

And I exhaled. For the first time since Warsaw, I really let the breath go.

When he came back, steam curled faint in the hall behind him. His balaclava was pulled up just beneath his nose. Hair damp. Sleeves pushed to the elbows.

He sat across from me without a word. His presence filled the space, but didn't press on it. Just existed beside me. Solid. Quiet.

I sipped the tea again—lukewarm now. Still grounding.

After a pause, I murmured, "The shirt was in your closet."

His eyes moved—down to the fabric draped on me. Loose. Oversized. Familiar.

"I know." he said.

I looked down into the tea. "It still smells like you."

Another pause. Then—

"I left it there for a reason."

My throat tightened.

"I couldn't—" I started, then stopped.

He didn't make me finish. Didn't push. Just said, quietly, "You don't have to explain."

I swallowed hard.

"Okay."

I set the mug down carefully.

"I'm tired," I said. "Gonna head to bed."

He didn't look up.

"I'll take the couch."

I didn't argue. Of course he would. He always did. But tonight, I wished he wouldn't. Something about it felt heavier. Like we were both pretending not to want the same thing.

I stood slowly. My fingers lingered on the edge of the couch. Then I turned, walking toward the bedroom.

I didn't say goodnight.

But I hoped he heard it anyway.

Ghost's Flat, North London – 19:47

The bedroom was lit only by one corner lamp. It cast long shadows across the walls. I didn't bother switching it off.

Slid under the covers. Lay still.

The pillow smelled like him. The shirt held warmth in the seams.

The city hummed outside. Somewhere down the hall, the couch frame creaked. Then went still.

My eyes stayed open.

I tried to sleep. But the silence was too full. Too loud. Every breath a memory.

Warsaw. Cipher. The children. Spectre's final hug. Koldun's laugh. Dragovich's smile behind prison glass.

But that wasn't what kept me awake.

Not really.

I turned over. Face half-buried in the pillow. Fingers clenched tight into the sheets.

And finally—

Soft. Tired. Barely more than a breath—

"Simon?"