Getting Ghost out of his comfort zone had always been tricky. He thrived on routine, valued his solitude, yet here he was, sitting beside you on a flight to Japan. The hum of the engines between you felt less awkward, more intimate.

It started with a passing comment months ago about your love for Japan. Ghost had surprised you by remembering and asking questions. Slowly, you convinced him to come with you. Now, in the cramped seat, he looked relaxed, his mask swapped for a plain balaclava. His sharp eyes met yours.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“Just making sure you haven’t backed out yet,” you grinned.

He huffed, a soft laugh. “Too late for that, isn’t it?”

“Wait,” you said, leaning back. “You’ll love it.”

But the truth weighed on you. This trip wasn’t just about showing him Japan—it was a way to hold on before everything fell apart.

Three months ago, the doctor’s words had shattered you. Cancer. Aggressive. Terminal. You couldn’t tell Ghost. He already had so much on his plate. So you buried the pain, focused on giving him this—a memory free of shadows. Selfishly, you wanted to believe, just for a while, that everything was fine.

When the plane landed, Ghost scanned the airport, ever watchful. You placed a hand on his arm, grounding him.

“Relax,” you murmured. “You’re not on a mission. Just enjoy it.”

Over the next few days, you explored Tokyo, Kyoto, and Mount Fuji. Ghost surprised you at every turn—curious, attentive, even playful in his own way. Watching him try takoyaki for the first time, his brow furrowed in thought, was a memory you’d treasure.

But one evening at Fushimi Inari-taisha, the weight of your secret became unbearable. As the sun dipped, casting golden light over the torii gates, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Simon,” you began, your voice shaky.

He stopped, eyes searching yours. “What is it?”

How could you tell him everything you were giving him now might be all you had left?