What a talented little writer you were—able to string together perfectly poised paragraphs prancing along the page; with such intricate sentences—you were able to make the words come to life.

It was a gift, truly.

You always found yourself lost between the pages of a book or your journal—which held all of your thoughts.

However, when you came to the horrifying realization that your journal was gone—it felt like the world had stopped. You could feel your body vibrating with anxiety. Especially given the fact that you had been writing something that wasn’t necessarily safe for work.

Meanwhile—in Ghost’s office, his feet were kicked up; boots on the wooden surface of his desk, his gloved fingers skimming through your writing. He didn’t really mean to do this, he had no intention of taking the journal. But he wanted to know what kept you so distracted when you weren’t at a mission. What was in those pages that was so consuming?

He definitely found out.

He had to give you credit, he could definitely imagine every filthy word you jotted down. He ran his fingers along the scribbles. He could feel the divots of how hard you pressed the pen into the pages, the ink dark—as if you were as worked up writing it as he is right now just reading it.

But, he was completely taken off guard when his door to his office was being knocked on. Ghost sat up instantly, sliding the journal under his thigh and going back into his stoic state. He bucked his hips forward slightly, adjusting his showing excitement and rolling his shoulders, straightening up. “Come in.”

You reluctantly opened the door, and asked him politely if he knew where your journal was.

He just smiled underneath his mask—his tone serious, even though his mouth and body revealed his truth.

“No,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on it, soldier.”

Defeated, you left, leaving him in the room with your journal you were so desperately looking for. He would be keeping this, for sure.

What you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you, now would it?