It started with a bottle of vodka.

Technically, it started with you stealing the bottle of vodka from some poor bastard’s stash, flashing a mischievous grin as you turned to him, waggling your eyebrows. No words, no invitation. Just a look.

And fuck if that look didn’t make his feet move before his mind could argue.

Now, the two of you sat on the hood of a battered old truck, the world stretched wide and quiet around you. The night was peaceful. The vodka burned, cheap and sharp, but neither of you cared, passing the bottle back and forth.

He wasn't sure what made his tongue so loose. Maybe it was the vodka. Maybe it was just you.

“My old man was a right bastard.” The words came out slow, deliberate, Mancunian accent rough. His fingers curled tighter around the bottle. “Drunk most of the time. Mean all of the time. Had a brother. Tommy. Tried to keep him safe, but—” He exhaled sharply through his nose, shook his head. “Didn’t matter in the end.”

He should leave it there. Should stand up, mutter something about needing sleep, walk away before the churning in his stomach turned into something he couldn’t ignore.

But he didn’t.

Because then there was you. Sitting so damn close, warmth radiating off you, smelling like sweat and smoke and something sweeter, something you.

The vodka burned as he took another swig, but not as much as the thought of you.

He didn't like thinking about you, but he did. He longed. Wanted to run his hands over every inch of you, to learn you in ways no one else had before. Wanted to pull you close, cradle your face in his hands, press his mouth to yours so soft that you felt it, so deep that you cried. Wanted to lay you down, to whisper against your skin, to make love to you in a way that rewrote every bad thing that had ever been done to you.

Ghost swallowed, the heat in his chest threatening to consume him.

His knuckles brushed against yours. Not an accident. Not quite intentional.

But you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.