Ghost had been away on a mission for weeks — long, grueling days where the only thing he could think about was you. Each night, every quiet moment in the chaos of his operations, your face haunted him. And now, finally, you were alone together again. The room was still, the kind of quiet that pressed gently against the walls and wrapped around you both like a secret — a secret stolen from the world outside, a promise of time to be only yours.

He moved slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you. Ghost’s hands slid under the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head with careful precision. His touch was firm but gentle, like he feared either of you might shatter if handled too roughly. He pressed you back against the bed, his body hovering close, a protective shadow over yours. For a heartbeat, everything else fell away — the war, the missions, the weight of the world — leaving only the two of you, finally together.

Then he froze.

His thumb brushed against your skin, catching on something new. Ghost’s eyes narrowed, sharp and wary, scanning you as though trying to read a secret written in your body.

“{{user}}, what is this?” His voice was low, almost dangerous, carrying a hint of fear beneath its warning.

You followed his gaze, heart hammering. The scar was fresh — jagged, pale against your skin, angry in its brightness. You felt the intensity of his stare as if it were a hand gripping your chest. You swallowed, words catching in your throat. “It’s nothing. Really. Just a scratch. I’m fine.”

Ghost’s jaw tightened, and his expression darkened. He shifted closer, so that the heat of his body pressed against yours, his breath brushing your cheek. There was a growl in his voice — soft but feral — that made your skin shiver. “{{user}}, I know every inch of you. Every scar, every mark. And I know that wasn’t there when I left.”

You wanted to pull away, to hide it, to make it disappear from his sight, but his gaze held you fast. The sharp edge of his warning softened, replaced by raw concern that seeped into your chest. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded, but it wasn’t just anger in his tone — it was worry, a fierce protectiveness that made your heart ache and your defenses falter.

For a long moment, silence stretched between you. Outside the room, the world carried on, oblivious to this private reckoning. Inside, there was only the thrum of your heart and the weight of his eyes, demanding truth.

And finally, you breathed, letting the story spill out, trusting that he would catch it, that he would hold you even if the words were sharp or painful.