The house was quiet when you stepped inside, the kind of silence that felt like it had been waiting for someone to break it. You slipped off your shoes, setting them aside with a soft sigh. Ghost wasn’t home yet or at least, you thought he wasn’t. Then you heard it. The slow, careful click of metal being set down. He was here.

You found him in the dim light of the living room, still in partial gear, shadows curling around him like a second skin. His gloves were on always the gloves. Black, worn-in, familiar. His shoulders looked heavy, his posture rigid in that way it only ever was after a mission. He didn’t turn immediately when you entered he didn’t need to. He felt you before he saw you.

“Hey,” you said softly. He inhaled once quiet, steady. Then he turned toward you. Even masked, even tired, his eyes warmed. He nodded, the closest he usually got to I’m glad you’re here after a long day. You moved closer, and he straightened just enough to meet you halfway. When you reached out, he didn’t take your hand. Not yet.

Even masked, even tired, his eyes warmed. He nodded, the closest he usually got to I’m glad you’re here after a long day. You moved closer, and he straightened just enough to meet you halfway. When you reached out, he didn’t take your hand. Not yet. Instead, he looked down at his gloves. It was a tiny pause, but you had learned to read him like scripture every breath, every twitch of his fingers, every shift in stance. That hesitation meant something. It always did. With slow, deliberate movements, he peeled off the first glove. Then the second.

His hands were strong, calloused, a little scarred hands that had held weapons, pushed back horrors, done things he never spoke of. But to him, they were only “clean” when they were bare. Only real when they were for you. He set the gloves aside like they were something dangerous. And then he touched you.