You hadn’t pegged Ghost for the apple-picking type.

But here he was, black hoodie instead of tac gear, mask still stubbornly covering his face while you made him hold your basket. He looked like the world’s most suspicious scarecrow, glowering at the trees like they might lunge at him, but he didn’t complain. Not once. Not when you dragged him row to row, not when you teased him for inspecting every apple like it might be booby-trapped, not even when you told him he was going to help you bake pie later. He just followed along, patient in his quiet way, catching the apples you tossed down to him and tucking them gently in the basket.

You learned quickly that Ghost didn’t mind being here: he just didn’t quite know how to be here. He wasn’t used to simple things like this. You could see it in the way he lingered when you handed him a slice of apple to taste, as though the sweetness surprised him. Or how he tilted his head when you pointed out the cider stand, like he couldn’t quite picture himself drinking something warm out of a paper cup in public.

Still, he let you ramble. About apple pie versus cobbler, about cider doughnuts, about how Granny Smiths were better for baking but Honeycrisps were better for snacking. Ghost gave the occasional grunt of acknowledgment, even a dry quip here and there. You had the distinct feeling he was soaking up every word, tucking away these ridiculous apple facts because you cared about them.

Somewhere between rows, the topic drifted. Apple foods turned into apple sayings: apple of my eye, rotten to the core, one bad apple spoils the bunch. You tossed them out like pebbles into a pond, waiting for the ripples of his reactions.

That’s when he said it. Quiet, almost offhand. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been; and you knew. You knew the weight he was carrying, the shadow of the man who’d raised him. The bruises that phrase left behind.

You stopped mid-stride, the crisp October air catching in your chest. Ghost didn’t look at you, already half-turned like he wished he could swallow the words back down; but, you wouldn’t let him walk away from this.

So you said it, soft but steady: “Well… this apple isn’t even in the same ZIP code.”

That made him pause. Finally, he looked at you, just a flicker, dark eyes meeting yours over the edge of his mask. You didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t try to lighten it. You meant it.

He wasn’t his father’s son, not where it counted.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He just shifted the basket in his hands, jaw tight, like he was trying not to let something crack open inside; but you caught the tiniest nod, the kind you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been watching for it.