A cold, silent night had settled over the military base. The moonlight filtered through the half-open window, casting long shadows across the room. Ghost stood by the edge of the bed, his towering frame tense, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was hard, as if daring you to push him further, to break the iron-clad will he had forged through years of battle and loss.

But you saw through him—into the cracks in his armor, the parts of him that ached for something more than the stoic mask he always wore. His breath hitched when you stepped closer, your fingers lightly brushing the fabric of his shirt. You could feel the tension thrumming beneath his skin, as if he was holding back, fighting the pull.

"You don’t always have to be in control, Simon," you whispered, your voice soft yet filled with a quiet command that made his jaw clench.

"I'm not some toy to be played with," he growled, though his voice wavered slightly, betraying the lie in his words. His dark eyes burned with intensity, but there was something else there—a longing he tried so hard to hide.

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes fluttered closed at the gentle touch, and his breathing grew ragged.

"Let go," you urged, your thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. "You don't always have to be the strong one. I want to take care of you, Simon. I want to praise you for everything you are. Let me."

For a moment, there was silence, a war raging within him. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned into your touch. His shoulders sagged, a deep exhale leaving his lips.

"I don’t need it," he murmured, though the way his body melted into yours told a different story.

"Yes, you do," you replied softly, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. "And I'll be here when you're ready to admit it."