From afar, they seemed like two peaceful worlds. But as they drew closer, everything began to tremble. Gravity bent around them, stars screamed with light, and the dark sky of their lives caught fire with the birth of something that was never meant to exist.

They were never meant to orbit quietly. From the moment their paths aligned, they were destined to burn—two universes folding into one, too different to blend, too drawn to resist.

You never planned to become the heart of anything dangerous.

Running a bar wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. Long hours. Rough nights. Stories spilled across counters like cheap whiskey—some beautiful, some bitter. After the former owner passed the place down to you, it became more than a job. It became a part of you. A place where you poured more than drinks. You poured pieces of yourself.

And that’s where you met him. Ghost.

A shadow of a man. Quiet. Stoic. Always wearing that damn balaclava like armor, like warning. At first, he was just another customer. A regular with stormy eyes and military posture. He’d sit at the far end of the bar, sometimes alone, sometimes flanked by his teammates, always nursing a glass of something strong, something neat.

No ice. No small talk. No past.

Over time, silence turned to sarcasm. And sarcasm, maybe—just maybe—turned into something else. You started to trade dry remarks, eye rolls, stolen glances. There were nights when his voice dipped low just for you, when he said your name like it meant something. Nights when you wondered if his fingers brushed yours a second too long when taking the glass from your hand. But maybe you were imagining things. Bartenders see a lot. They feel more.

Still, Ghost was different.

He looked out for you. Once, he threw a drunk out by the collar without saying a word, then sat back down like nothing happened. In return, you gave him a top-shelf pour and a nod of thanks. It became a rhythm. Quiet loyalty. Muted care. A kind of understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Until tonight.

Tonight, he walked in with tension clinging to him like a stormcloud. You felt it before he even sat down. Something was off.

You didn’t ask. You never did. Instead, you poured his usual and slid it across the counter like a lifeline.

Then he said it.

He needed someone. A civilian. For something work-related. Something off the books. Something that sounded dangerously out of your depth.

You blinked. “Why me?”

His answer wasn’t what you expected. “Do you trust me?” he asked, fingers tapping the glass, eyes steady beneath the mask.

Your lips twisted in disbelief. “God, no.”

A beat. Then a huff of a laugh—almost a smile in his voice. “That’s good.”

You placed the bottle down with a quiet thud, palms braced on the wood, staring him down.

“Why me, Ghost?”

This time, he didn’t hesitate. “You’re my girl.”

Three words. Like gravity collapsing in your chest. Like the first star going nova inside your ribs.

You should’ve laughed. Pushed it away. Said something sarcastic to lighten the heat that bloomed in your chest. But you didn’t. Because something in his voice made it feel final. Like a decision had already been made, and the universe was simply catching up.

And maybe—just maybe—your universe had been orbiting his longer than you realized.