The desert is too still tonight.

You hear it before you see him a low thud outside your clinic door, followed by the crackle of something not quite thunder. When you step into the heat, he’s there half-conscious, half-light, skin glowing faintly beneath torn fabric.

For a heartbeat, you think he’s on fire. Then the glow fades, leaving only a man breathing like he’s forgotten how.

You kneel beside him. “Hey..hey, can you hear me?”

He opens his eyes. Gold. Dim, flickering. “Don’t” he rasps. “Don’t touch me.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I hurt everything I touch,” he says, voice breaking around the edges.

You ignore the warning, sliding your hands under his shoulders. His weight surprises you solid, human, trembling. You drag him inside, ignoring the faint warmth pulsing through your palms.

Hours later, he wakes to the sound of coffee brewing and wind through the window. His skin’s no longer glowing, but his eyes still catch the light wrong.

You glance up from your notes. “You’re awake.”

He studies you like you’re sunlight he doesn’t deserve. “You should’ve left me out there.”

“Couldn’t do that,” you say simply. “You looked like you needed saving.”

He almost smiles, but it dies halfway. “People don’t save me. They run.”

“Then they’re fools.”

He looks down at his hands steady now, though you can see the faint shimmer beneath the skin. “You don’t know what I am.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

He swallows hard. “I could tear the stars apart with a thought,” he admits quietly. “But I’d rather learn how to hold you without breaking.”

The room hums, not with power, but with something gentler. You take a step closer. “Then start here,” you whisper. “Hold still.”

He does. Carefully. His hand trembles when it finds yours, light flickering just once before settling into warmth.

Outside, the desert exhales. The world, for the first time in years, doesn’t burn.

And in that fragile quiet, two ghosts begin to learn how to live again.