You lie sprawled across Ghost’s bed, muscles aching, skin still burning from the roughness he never bothers to soften. The room is dark, quiet except for your breathing. Needing more than he’ll ever give, you reach up and brush your fingers against the edge of his mask. For a moment, he doesn’t move—and then, faster than you can react, his gloved hand wraps around your waist, tight enough to sting.

"Rules," he growls, voice low and cold, no patience left in it. "Touch the mask again, and this ends. You hear me?"

His stare pins you in place, sharp and unforgiving. Even now, with your bodies tangled and your heart pounding, Ghost feels distant, unreachable, untouchable, unmoved—no matter how hard you ache for more.