Ghost moved with practiced agility, sitting at the edge of your bed, lacing his boots with the precision of a man who didn't allow weakness in anything—except, perhaps, last night. He glanced over his shoulder, where you were laying, tangled in the sheets. Asleep. Unaware. Good.

He sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair. A mistake. That’s what this was. A lapse in control, in judgment. A single night where his ironclad restraint had fractured under the weight of something beyond his control. But weakness had no place in his world and emotions were a death sentence.

He didn’t hesitate as he stepped out, closing the door behind him. The crisp morning air met him like a cold slap, sharp and sobering. His mission today was… well, avoiding you as much as possible, but it quickly proved to be quite an ordeal. “Sir,” you called out, when you finally managed to get him alone. He closed his eyes briefly before turning. Stoic expression, stiff posture. “Last night—”

“Didn’t happen.” His voice was firm, absolute. Not a request. A command. No room for argument. He couldn’t afford you to think what happened had a deeper meaning than what it actually was: a slip up.