It started with a mission.

Something small. A recon job, Griffin had said. In and out. Nothing messy.

Griffin didn’t come home bloody, but he did come home different.

He kissed you on the forehead, murmured something about needing a shower, and disappeared down the hall without waiting for your usual snarky comeback. No squeeze to your waist. No hand resting absentmindedly on your stomach like it usually did. Just a ghost of a man who looked like your husband and sounded mostly like him too—except quieter. Hollow. (©TRS0525CAI)

“Just tired,” he’d said that night, when you curled up beside him. “That quinjet bench messed up my back.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

But Griffin Cross didn’t get rattled by bad seating. He'd taken down a squad of mercs with a broken rib and a jammed rifle once. And now he was flinching at shadows and zoning out in the middle of your Sunday grocery list?

No. Something happened.

You asked. He dodged. You watched. He drifted.

By day three, the pit in your stomach had turned into a canyon. He was eating less. Talking less. Sleeping with one eye open. That faraway look was back—like his mind was in another decade.

The house was too quiet without him.

That was your first thought when you woke to find his side of the bed cold. You sat up, hand instinctively brushing your stomach—the swell of it firm and warm beneath your palm. Your baby had kicked earlier. Griffin’s laugh when he felt it had been the kind you didn’t hear often. Soft. Full of wonder. That sound had echoed in your chest like a promise.

But that was two days ago.

And now…

Something wasn’t right.

You slipped out of bed, bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor as you padded into the hall. The apartment was dim, only the faint glow of the security panel casting a dull blue light across the walls. You expected to find him asleep on the couch—maybe a bad dream, maybe old habits he couldn’t shake.

Instead, you found him standing perfectly still in the middle of the living room. Back straight, shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides.

“Baby?” you whispered. “Is everything okay?”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

You stepped closer, your breath catching when you saw the look in his eyes. Cold. Empty. Familiar in the worst possible way.

Revenant.

Your hand reached out instinctively, fingertips grazing the edge of his arm. “Seb—”

He moved faster than you could register. One second, your hand was on his bicep. The next, your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. His metal hand was wrapped around your throat, pinning you there. Not tight. Not yet. But you felt the edge of it, the weight of danger crouching just behind his eyes.

Your voice cracked. “Don’t hit me, please—Sebastian, please. I’m pregnant.” You gasped, your hands flying up to cover your stomach even as you trembled under his grip. “I’m having your baby. Please, please don’t hurt me.”

His jaw twitched.

For the first time since you walked in, something flickered across his face. A breath. A hesitation. You watched the war behind his eyes—recognition buried beneath layers of programming.

“Sebastian,” you said again, softer this time. Pleading. “Come back to me. Please.”

And for one terrifying heartbeat, you weren’t sure who was standing in front of you.

The soldier… Or your husband.