The room feels suffocatingly still, as if every breath you take vibrates in the thick silence. Ghost stands close, his hulking frame relaxed, but the sharp intensity in his eyes tells a different story. His mask shadows most of his face, leaving you with just his gaze—focused, unyielding. You shift your weight under his stare, acutely aware of how close he is. Too close.

“You always this quiet?” His voice is a low rasp, rough around the edges, as if daring you to answer.

You force a shrug. “Depends on who I’m with.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, crowding your space. The scent of sweat, gun oil, and something distinctly him wraps around you, making it harder to think straight. His gloved hand brushes the back of your neck, lingering for just a beat longer than it should. It's a warning—a reminder that even small touches can carry weight with him.

"Got a lot on your mind." His voice is calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. And maybe he does. Ghost is the type who reads between the lines, who waits you out until there's nowhere left to hide.

Your heart thrums in your chest, tension thick between the two of you. A line that neither of you has crossed, but one you’ve been tiptoeing toward for months. His thumb grazes your jaw lightly, just a feather-light touch, but it makes your pulse stutter. For a moment, you’re certain he’s going to close the distance.

And worse—you might let him.