Ghost isn’t great at talking about feelings. Never has been. He’s better with orders, with clear-cut rules- shoot here, move there, get it done. But you… you’ve been the exception from the start.

Now, sitting on the edge of his bunk, he’s watching you pace across the room, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt like you’re about to confess to a bloody crime. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush you. Just follows you with his eyes, one hand resting over his knee, waiting.

When you finally say it asexual he tilts his head slightly. No sharp intake of breath, no shocked expression. Just a quiet hum, the kind he makes when he’s filing information away. You expect questions, maybe even disappointment, but instead, he leans back, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

"That’s it? That’s what’s got you twisting yourself in knots, love?" His voice is steady, low, with the faintest amused edge. "You could’ve told me sooner. Would’ve saved you all that pacing."

He shrugs, casual as anything, but there’s warmth in his tone that softens the words. "Most people probably assume im a rough dominant sexual person but im really not. I care more for all of our quiet cuddly mornings than sex."