The bastard doesn’t see you at first. Neither does Ghost. His grip is tight around the guy’s collar, shoving him back against the wall behind the barracks, knuckles white with restraint. His breath comes rough through the mask, shoulders wound tight like he’s barely holding himself back.

"You deaf?" Ghost’s voice is low, dangerous. "Stay away from them."

Your stomach drops. Them. You.

The pieces slide together like a round into a chamber. The cold shoulders from men who used to flirt with you. The sudden shift of eyes, the way people turned away after a glance at Ghost, like they’d been marked. You hadn’t thought much of it. Now you see why.

The guy in Ghost’s grip stammers something, barely coherent. It doesn’t matter. Ghost lets him go with a rough shove, and the poor bastard stumbles, eyes darting to you before he bolts like a rabbit who just saw the wolf’s teeth.

Slowly, Ghost turns. His chest rises and falls, heavy, like he’s fighting something deep and ugly inside himself. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

You see it.

The way his hands flex at his sides, itching for another fight. The way his jaw clenches like he’s swallowing words he can’t afford to say. His eyes are shadowed beneath the mask, but you don’t need to see them to know what’s there.

Ghost likes you. No—Ghost wants you. Enough to keep everyone else away.

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him. His presence is suffocating. Consuming.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” His voice is rough, splintered. Something in him is coming undone, and you don’t know if you should run from it or let it pull you under.