"I'll be gone for a while," Ghost says with cold decisiveness.

The weight of his glove upon your cheek is a familiar one. In moments like this, he finds comfort in the simplicity of that contact.

He hardly ever shows or asks for affection, but beneath that stoicism lies a heart yearning to be loved. He knows every meeting might as well be the last one.

His eyelids flutter shut, the black paint a canvas for your lips. You press tender kisses against them, his lashes tickling your lips.