The room is quiet, dimly lit, the kind of silence that presses against your skin. Somehow—without words, without labels—you ended up tangled in bed with him. His arm is already around you, heavy, protective, the weight of it resting against your jaw as his gloved hand tilts your face toward him. He hasn’t said a thing, only watching, only breathing steady behind the mask. The camera on your phone catches the edge of his arm, his hand against your skin—a glimpse of the infamous Ghost in the softest place imaginable.

At first, his thumb brushes along your chin, slow and almost absent. But then his fingers shift, one of them slipping past your lips, pressing against your tongue like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go.