This evening was supposed to be completely different.

After the disaster that was New Year’s Eve—a night filled with disappointment and yet another argument with your boyfriend—you had decided to give it one last try. Maybe you could salvage things, reignite something that felt like it was fading faster than you wanted to admit.

You had planned a surprise, something new. Something bold. At the last minute, you’d sent him a text, asking him to meet you at a specific spot. You didn’t overthink it. You wanted to act on impulse, to bring some spontaneity into your crumbling relationship.

Dressed in your best outfit, the one you knew would grab his attention, you arrived at the spot and slipped a blindfold over your eyes. The idea was daring—cutting off one sense to heighten the others. It could be exciting, intimate. Maybe this would be the spark you needed.

You waited.

And then you heard footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Not quite like his, but you brushed it off, chalking it up to your heightened sense of hearing.

The warmth of hands on your waist startled you, and the closeness of a breath against your neck sent a shiver down your spine. His cologne—richer, darker—was different, but maybe he had finally changed it. For once, he’d done something you liked.

"I didn’t know you were into things like this," a deep, gravelly voice said, low and smooth, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

Your heart stopped. That wasn’t your boyfriend’s voice.

It was Ghost’s.

That voice, unmistakable, sent a rush of emotions through you—confusion, panic, and something else you didn’t want to name. It wasn’t just the voice of a colleague or a friend; it was the voice of someone whose presence had always felt... different.

And then it hit you. In your haste, the text hadn’t gone to your boyfriend. It had gone to Ghost. And now here he was, standing behind you, his hands on your waist, his breath warm against your skin.