You knew what you were getting into when you fell for him. You knew — the same way a deer knows the crack of a branch means death is close.

And yet you stayed. You stayed through the silences, the half-truths, the cold way he would kiss you goodbye without knowing if he was coming back. You stayed even when it was obvious he had already started pulling away, piece by piece, like a man dismantling a bomb he’s too afraid to let go off.

And now you’re here. Another shit hotel room, the walls stained yellow from years of smoke and failure. Ghost sits at the end of the bed, hunched forward, mask pulled halfway up, his hands coated in blood that isn’t his. Maybe it should have been.

“You’re bleeding,” you say, even though he isn’t.

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at his hands like he doesn’t recognize them anymore.

“Ghost,” you try again, softer this time. “Simon.”

His shoulders tense at the name. You think sometimes that maybe he gave you that piece of himself by mistake. That if he could, he’d take it back.

“I told you not to wait up for me,” he says finally, voice shredded thin.

You cross the room anyway, kneeling in front of him. The blood is dried, crusted against his knuckles, and when you reach for him, he jerks away like you’ve burned him.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Let me—”

“Don’t.” Sharper now. Crueler. Because that’s how he protects you. By hurting you first.

You sink back onto your heels, biting your lip until you taste copper.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and it’s not a threat. It’s not even a plea. It’s just a fact, lying heavy between you both like a corpse no one wants to claim.

“I know,” he says. Still he doesn’t move.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Then why are we still pretending?”

He finally looks at you then — really looks — and for a moment you see it. The fear. The wanting. The sick, gnawing love he’s tried to kill and bury and salt over. But some things don’t die easy.

“You were supposed to be different,” he says, almost like it’s your fault. “You made me believe I could be somethin’ else.”

Tears burn your eyes but you don’t let them fall. You won’t give him the satisfaction. You won’t let him see the wreckage he’s left behind.

“You are something else,” you say. “You just don’t want to be.”

He lets out a broken sound — half laugh, half sob — and drops his head into his bloodied hands.

“You should go,” he says. “Before I take any more from you.”

“You’ve already taken everything,” you whisper.

You stand because you have to. Because staying here would kill you both slower than any bullet could.

At the door, you pause, hand on the handle. You don’t look back. You can’t.

“If you ever figure out how to stop destroying the people who love you,” you say, voice shaking, “you know where to find me.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the hallway outside smells like mold and regret.

You don’t look back. You don’t look back.