Ghost bore both the real and the invisible scars inflicted on him before he could see the dusk. He bore them and he didn't lick his wounds, he scratched them and hated everything that shined on them.

That was until he had you.

Refusing to step in the same cracks as his father, he swore to be a wall of protection and a kind hand, even if it didn't come natural to him.

He stood in the doorway of his teenage son's room.

"Yer hair's long." He finally commented, as soft as he knew how.