What more could a person ask for, really? You had a stable job you enjoyed, a life that was calm enough not to drown you but busy enough not to bore you, a circle of friends who made the days lighter, and a cat waiting faithfully at home to greet you after every shift. It was comfortable. Predictable. Safe.

But happiness doesn’t always come from stability. Sometimes, it comes from a spark. A spark that slowly, carefully, grows into something dangerous—something that burns, that consumes.

And with him, the spark had already begun.

Working at a bar wasn’t anyone’s idea of extraordinary, but you had found yourself in it. Behind the counter, you were surrounded by people and their stories: first dates, broken hearts, drunken laughter, tears that called for a free drink or two. Life passed through your barstools, and you—always smiling, always listening—felt connected to it all. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.

Then he walked in.

The first time Ghost stepped into your bar, he didn’t say much. He sat quietly at the counter, drinking whisky in silence. But silence with him wasn’t empty—it was heavy, shadowed by something dark and dangerous. From the start, you could tell he was tied to the military, though he never admitted it. The weight he carried wasn’t the kind ordinary men carried.

He came back. Again. And again.

With every visit, he unraveled—just a little. A real name slipped out one night: Simon. Another night, the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips. Later, a raised brow, a quiet joke, short conversations that stretched longer than they should have. Until one day, it wasn’t just conversation anymore. It was glances that burned, words that flirted, a look across the bar that made your stomach twist and your pulse race.

And then—his kiss. Behind the counter, during your break. Quick, unexpected, dizzying. From that moment on, you stopped pretending you weren’t hooked. His visits became your secret addiction. The sound of his voice, the weight of his gaze, the rare but disarming compliments—each left you hungry for more.

Tonight was no different. The bar was calm, customers easy, and you caught yourself glancing at the door more times than you’d admit, waiting for him. The thrill of anticipation curled warm in your chest.

You were mid-shift, sliding a drink across the counter, when a woman approached with a smile.

“What can I get you?” you asked, cheerful, still buzzing with quiet excitement.

She didn’t want a drink, not really. She wanted to surprise her husband. His friend had told her he liked to unwind here after work, she explained, glowing with happiness. Laughing, you played along, chatting as she ordered a simple juice while she waited.

And then the door opened.

You saw him instantly. Simon. Ghost. Your chest tightened with recognition and relief—That’s my man, you whispered under your breath, grin tugging at your lips.

The glass clinked against the counter. You turned to the woman, ready to share your excitement. But her face had gone pale, her hand trembling as she set her drink aside.

“That’s my husband.”

The words hit harder than any punch.

Your heart plummeted, crashing somewhere deep in your stomach.

Across the room, Ghost had frozen. Halfway to the bar, his face unreadable, his gaze shifting between you and the woman at the counter. His eyes gave away nothing—no guilt, no regret, not even anger. Just that steady, soldier’s stare that never let anyone too close.

And in that instant, it all came crashing down.

You weren’t his spark. You weren’t his choice. You were only ever the fleeting shadow of something temporary. A moment he could walk away from when the night ended.

And now, under the harsh bar lights, the illusion shattered.