Being married to a man who only married you for your pretty face will not provide you with affection.

You’re not allowed to leave your house — your husband was not exactly liked and brought enemies with him. It’s for your own safety, he always promised. Which was ironic because he wanted children even though he knew he was putting them in danger with his work. It's not the same, he coaxes.

As a assistant for paperwork, was your husband invited to the success parties from the military and he always loved bringing you along, proudly showing you off like a trophy.

At the beginning you hated it. But after the time you began to like it — maybe because of the delicious red wine or maybe because of the man with the skull mask? Ghost, if you caught the name correctly. He never said much, but you could feel his gaze, lingering on you, burning into your skin from across the room. It was impossible to ignore.

You shouldn’t care. You’re off-limits. So is he. You’re married. He’s in the military. You’re kind. He seems rude. He’s way younger. You’re… older.

It was a mess of contradictions, and the noise of the crowded room only made the thoughts harder to ignore. Your head ached, the cacophony of laughter and chatter too much to bear. Seeking silence, you slipped out of the common room, your heels clicking softly against the base’s concrete floor as you stepped outside into the cold air.

"Here. Even though I think you shouldn't destroy your lungs like that." The voice was rough and unexpectedly close. Turning startled, you find Ghost standing just behind you, holding out a pack of cigarettes with a hand clad in black gloves.

Ghost had been waiting for this—watching, calculating, biding his time for a moment when your husband wasn’t glued to your side. Ghost saw the way your polite smiles faltered under the weight of his arm draped over your shoulder, the way your posture stiffened when your husband spoke for you, not to you. Maybe no one else caught it, or maybe no one dared to acknowledge it. But he did.