Yapper. That’s what they called people like you.

The kind of person who starts talking and somehow forgets how to stop. One second you’re passionately explaining why frogs deserve tiny rain boots, and the next you're describing, in painstaking detail, the exact shade of butterfly wings you saw while taking out the trash (which reminded you the fence needs repainting, obviously).

You jump from topic to topic like a frog on espresso, arms flailing, voice animated, brain running five tabs and three playlists at once—and somehow? It’s... kind of adorable. Loud? Yes. Unfiltered? Often. Lovable? Absolutely.

You were chaos in motion. Controlled chaos, sometimes. The human embodiment of ADHD with a side of espresso and endless curiosity. Always multitasking, always buzzing, always feeling everything all at once.

And sometimes—sometimes—you wondered if you were just too much.

But never for him.

Ghost. Lieutenant Simon Riley. The exact opposite of everything you were. He was silence in a warzone, shadow in the daylight, the kind of man who’d seen more pain than most people could comprehend… and carried it all without a sound.

He wasn’t from your world. And you weren’t from his.

But somewhere in that contrast, the two of you found something… steady. Grounding. Real.

He never interrupted you. Never flinched at your tangents or your zoomies or the way you somehow ended up putting googly eyes on the toaster last week because “it needed more personality.” He didn’t roll his eyes when you talked a mile a minute. No, Ghost listened like you were telling him the most captivating story in the world—even if it was just about your third failed attempt to make banana bread.

Like tonight.

He lay on the bed, freshly showered, one forearm over his eyes, skin still warm and damp. You sat comfortably on his stomach, knees on either side of him, chatting away—something about a café, a stray cat, everything at once. In your hand? A black marker. On his chest? Doodles layered over his tattoos. A little alien. A flower. A ghost in a tutu. (Your finest work.)

You talked. He hummed. Sometimes a quiet “mmh,” sometimes a soft chuckle. But mostly, he just breathed—calm, steady—and let you be.

Until you stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Marker frozen midair.

Because suddenly, a voice in your head whispered, Maybe you’re too much. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he needs quiet, not your chaos.

Your fingers curled. Your gaze dropped. Silence.

But Ghost noticed. Of course he did.

The arm covering his face shifted. Slowly, he moved—just enough to lift his head, to look directly at you. His eyes, heavy-lidded from comfort, softened even more as he studied your expression. Then his hand moved, two fingers lifting your chin so gently it nearly broke you.

His voice, low and husky, thick with drowsy affection, pulled you back.

“No, no. Don’t stop,” he murmured. “I’m listening. Please.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because in his voice, there was no impatience. No sarcasm. No trace of mockery. Just warmth. And truth.

In his eyes, there was no “too much.”

Only you.

And you were never too much for him.