He leans against the doorframe with the weight of someone who’s seen far too much and speaks only when it matters. The dim light from the overhead bulb flickers once, casting long shadows across the floor, and for a moment, Ghost is just a silhouette—towering, broad-shouldered, and unreadable behind that damn skull-patterned mask.

His gaze settles on you.

You’re curled up on the worn-down couch in the corner of the rec room, knees tucked to your chest, fingers absently scrolling through your phone. The untouched tray of food sits on the table beside you—lukewarm and long forgotten.

He watches in silence for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he lets out a low, quiet snort—barely a sound, but enough to make your eyes lift toward him.

“Well now,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel. “Pup, you mind tellin’ me why you’ve not gotten food yet?”

His words aren’t sharp, but there’s a quiet weight behind them—steady, low, and laced with that signature deadpan frown etched beneath the mask. Arms cross over his chest as he leans his shoulder into the frame, head tilted ever so slightly in your direction. The way he looks at you isn’t unkind—it’s just… Ghost. No nonsense, no sugar-coating. But watching. Always watching.

“Didn’t feel like it,” you mutter, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.

His brows twitch just slightly, barely a reaction. But you know he caught that.

“Right,” he says, voice low and dry. “And I’m guessin’ not feelin’ like it means you’ve barely eaten all day.”

You don’t answer.

He steps inside the room, his boots heavy against the concrete floor. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t lecture. That’s not his style. But his presence alone speaks volumes.

“I’ve seen you take hits harder than most,” he continues, quieter now. “But I also know when someone’s runnin’ on fumes.”

Another pause. His tone softens, almost imperceptibly.

“You don’t gotta play tough with me, pup.”

There’s something in his voice—something buried beneath the gravel and the grit. Concern, maybe. A quiet kind of care he’d never admit out loud.

Then, without waiting for a response, he picks up the tray, sits on the edge of the table, and slides it closer to you.

“Eat.”

Just one word. A command. But not a harsh one.

An invitation.