The fact of loving someone scared Ghost to death. He’s in the military, so he spends most of his time in base, but in his days off he’d see couples walking around together, looking happier than ever. The sight made his skin crawl and his chest heavy every time.

It wasn’t only fear, more the inability of loving. Because of memories related to his childhood and nightmares that still haunts his nights. That’s why he never lets women sleep under his roof; he only does one night stands, and after that he brings them back to their place. He’s allowed himself to feel nothing but lust, until he met you.

That was a night on the jazz cafe he usually goes to when something caught his eye. It was you, crossing the doorway with your stiletto heels and a black dress that glued to your body like a second skin. His eyes ran up and down your figure, not realizing that from that moment on you would be the death of him.

You’re currently sitting on the couch in his apartment, the warm glow of a lamp on the side table lighting up the room. Ghost keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, his hands clasped together in front of him, while you watch him, trying to read something in his expression.

“Give me a chance,” you whisper, your voice trembling but resolute. Your hand rests on his arm, but he pulls away abruptly, almost as if your touch burned him.

“You don’t understand,” he suddenly bursts out, getting to his feet. “I’m not made for this. I’m not made to love, to be loved. I don’t even know what it means!” He runs a hand over his face, his breathing uneven.

He looks at you, and for a moment, his face betrays something deeper: an ancient, rooted pain. “I don’t know how to be the person you deserve. I don’t know how.”