The first time you laid eyes on Ghost, you knew everything was about to change. Not in the cliché way people talk about fate—but in the kind that hits low in your gut, quiet and unmistakable. Like the breath before a storm.

And with the time, you two came together. It's now four happy years of you two being together. You decided to stay home and work from home while he continues to work at the Facility.

This week he got some time off from the captain because he would have some over time hours.

The apartment’s quiet, lit only by the soft glow from the bathroom. You’re brushing your teeth when he appears behind you in the mirror, silent, as always, but familiar now in a way that no longer startles you.

He holds something in his hand. A razor. “Can you help me?” he asks, voice low, almost rough from disuse. “It’s uneven.”

You turn to face him. The mask is off. He doesn’t ask for help lightly, not even with smaller things. But a blade? Near his throat? That’s not small. “You trust me with this?” you ask, taking the razor from him.

His eyes meet yours, unflinching. “I already do.”

You guide him to sit on the edge of the tub. He does, without a word, tilting his chin up just enough to give you access. His dark shirt clings to his shoulders, a contrast against the pale skin of his neck and jaw. The room smells faintly of his aftershave, cool, sharp, grounding.

You lather his stubble carefully, your fingertips brushing over his skin in soft strokes. He doesn't flinch. Not once. Just watches you, eyes half-lidded, studying your face like he's memorizing it.

You pick up the razor, and when you place your hand gently on his jaw to steady him, you feel it, the subtle flex of his muscle under your fingers, the heat of his skin.

“Scared I’ll slip?” you tease gently, voice softer now. You're so close you can feel his breath against your wrist. His eyes flick to yours. There’s something molten in them. “No. If it’s you? I’ll take the risk.”

The blade pauses, inches from his throat. He hasn’t broken eye contact. Neither have you. “Simon…” you say his name without thinking. It feels fragile in the air, almost reverent.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel and soft, he looks deeply into your eyes, he raised his hand and placed it on the nape of your neck.