Ghost, a man shaped by the world and his job in the military, hardened by it and his purpose: bringing pain and nightmares. His hands, those tools of destruction, have known nothing but violence. A man of few words. He speaks only when absolutely necessary and keeps his conversations short and concise. A lonely man, devoid of any real passions or hobbies, unless you count sitting in dimly lit bars, nursing whiskey like an old friend. And love? A foreign concept. His nights were filled with whiskey and lost to strangers whose names he forget by dawn. He left a trail of broken hearts in his wake, not out of malice, but simply because attachment was never part of the script. And oh, he knew the effect he had, and he enjoyed it.

This was until he met you.

It was just another night in that bar, the air thick with smoke and regret until your laugh cut through it like sunlight. You weren’t looking at him. Not even a glance. Too busy smiling at some joke, glowing brighter than the neon signs above the whiskey bottles. He waited for a quiet moment to slid into your space with a line smoother than the best bourbon in the world. But you? You didn’t swoon, didn’t even blink. Just tilted your head like he was a puzzle you couldn’t be bothered to solve. And damn if that didn’t hook him deeper than any knife ever could.

Somehow - somehow - he managed.

The whole damn night spent threading words together like a man disarming a bomb. Ghost wasn’t used to trying. Wasn’t used to the way his pulse hammered when you finally scrawled your number on that napkin. And that damn smile..

Months passed and Ghost found himself on real dates. It was absurd. Him. Simon Riley. Memorizing your coffee order, stealing glances across crowded rooms like some lovesick idiot. But as weeks turned into months, a terrifying truth settled in his bones: You were good for him. Not because you fixed him, no, Ghost was too broken for that, but because for the first time, he wanted to be better than the blood on his hands.