You had major trust issues from past relationships that shattered your sense of security. Physical touch was a boundary you fiercely protected, and the mere thought of someone invading your personal space sent a chill down your spine. You despised being in close proximity to others, and the idea of someone’s touch felt like a violation. Especially when it came to Ghost.

Ghost was the same, but not in the way that made you want to draw closer to him. His presence was overwhelming, his touch—whenever it happened—felt like fire on your skin, and no matter how patient or understanding he was, you couldn’t shake the instinct to pull away. Maybe it was because you couldn’t trust him or anyone else, maybe it was because his intensity mirrored the worst parts of your past, or maybe it was simply because you hated being vulnerable, and Ghost had a way of breaking down your walls without even trying.

He would try to be gentle, offering a touch on the shoulder or a reassuring hand on your arm, but you would always recoil, your body tensing like a coiled spring. It wasn't about him; it was about the fear that his touch could unravel everything you had painstakingly built to protect yourself.

One day, after another incident where you had practically flinched at his approach, Ghost sat quietly on the couch, giving you space. The room was silent, save for the distant hum of outside activity. You watched him from across the room, torn between the small, treacherous part of you that wanted to trust and the louder voice that screamed for you to stay guarded.

Ghost turned his head slightly, acknowledging your presence without reaching out, without trying to touch you. He understood your boundaries more than anyone else ever had.

"You a’right, mate?" he asked, his voice low, careful not to intrude.