The house was quiet, except for the faint sound of rain tapping against the windows. Ghost sat at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The weight of everything hung heavy in the air—thicker than usual, almost suffocating.

Down the hall, the soft murmurs of your child shifting in their sleep reminded him why he was still here, why he hadn’t just walked out the door in one of your latest fights. But lately, it felt like you were speaking two different languages, trapped in the same house yet feeling miles apart.

— "Didn’t think marriage would be easy," he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was rough, tired. "But I never thought it’d feel like this."

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply before looking at you. His eyes, shadowed with exhaustion and something deeper, searched yours for something—anything—that could fix this.

— "I know I’ve been distant," he admitted. "I know I’ve been… hard to deal with." His fingers curled into fists against his thighs. "But I don’t know how to be what you need me to be. Not anymore."

Ghost was never one for vulnerability. He was a soldier, a man who had spent years perfecting the art of shutting the world out. But here, in the dim light of your shared room, the cracks were starting to show.

— "I don’t wanna lose you," he finally said, voice quieter, raw. "But I don’t know how to fix this either."

The silence stretched between you, filled with unspoken words, regrets, and the ghosts of who you both used to be.