The sky outside was the color of bruised steel, dawn not yet broken, and the city beyond the broken windows of the safehouse still slept beneath the weight of its own decay. Faint sounds filtered through the cracked walls—distant wind, maybe rats in the alley, a siren too far off to matter.

Inside, the bed was warm.

You lay on your side, half-covered by a threadbare blanket, face tucked into the crook of one arm, the hem of your shirt pushed up just enough to expose a strip of bare skin at your waist. One of his shirts, actually. It still smelled faintly of him—gunpowder, cold air, something metallic and worn.

Ghost was awake beside you. Had been for a while.

He didn’t sleep easily. Especially not with you around. Not because he feared you—no, never that—but because he didn’t trust what you meant to him. Didn’t trust what he felt when you were lying still like this, within reach, breathing slow and soft like you belonged here.

You didn’t.

You were the hero in this story. Or at least that’s what the world thought. You’d dismantled every operation he’d touched in the last year. Burned contacts. Destroyed supply chains. Killed people who worked for him.

And yet, here you were.

Ghost’s eyes didn’t blink as he watched you. He stayed still for a long time, unmoving, until the urge crept up through his chest like smoke—heavy and inevitable.

His gloved hand moved slowly, deliberately.

He slipped it beneath the hem of your shirt, palm sliding across your abdomen. The heat of your skin soaked into his fingers. He let it travel upward, memorizing you in touch rather than sight. You stirred faintly, but didn’t wake.

Not yet.

His hand moved up, over the steady rhythm of your chest. Then higher.

Fingers traced your neck. Found your pulse. And then, slowly—possessively—his palm curled around your throat.

You inhaled sharply. Awareness flickered across your face as your eyes opened, sleep-heavy but sharp beneath the haze.

You didn’t flinch.

You looked at him over your shoulder, voice rough from sleep.

“Who said you could wake me up like that?” you sigh, half asleep.

Ghost’s face was unreadable beneath the half-shadow of his mask, but his voice was low and even—almost amused.

“Is that a complaint?” he said. “Should I turn you in instead?” he murmurs against your neck.