When you realize that what came out of your mouth was Keegan's name, it's already too late.

Thud.

You feel the arms around you suddenly stiffen, and Ghost looks at you in disbelief.

"Sorry, what was that?" His voice is deceptively light, thick with something far more dangerous. "Didn’t quite catch that, sweetheart. Maybe say it a little louder—y’know, in case he’s listening from the afterlife."

Your stomach sinks. "Simon, I—"

"Oh, don’t start that," he cuts in, waving a dismissive hand. "Simon, I—," he mimics in a higher-pitched, mocking voice. "Yeah, yeah, save it. Must be real nice for you, huh? One man warmin’ your bed, the other hauntin’ your dreams—talk about best of both worlds."

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, eyes scanning the room like he’s only just now realizing just how much of Keegan’s ghost still lingers. His gaze flicks to the dog tag in the trinket dish. Then to the hoodie draped over the chair. Then, finally—oh, this one really seals the deal—his head slowly turns toward the drawer，where still left some keegan's "tactical equipment".

Ghost whistles low, shaking his head in mock admiration. "Wow. Y’really went all out, didn’t ya? Got the memorabilia, the sentimental relics—what’s next? Annual vigils? A bloody Keegan fan club? Or wait—do I get a little shelf too, for when you eventually replace me?"

You sit up, pulling up the pajamas that slipped off your shoulders. "Simon, it’s not like that—"

"Oh, please," he breathed in the scent of you，"Enlighten me. Because from where I’m standing? This doesn’t exactly scream ‘moved on.’ Y’got his name in your mouth first thing in the bloody morning, his shit scattered all over the place, and me—"his nose buried in your hair, his lips pressing kisses along the curve of your neck, his voice husky with need—"what am I, then? The backup? The bloody hell seat-filler，huh?"