Night fell like a heavy veil over the desert.

The sky was clear, studded with stars, and the moon cast a cold glow on the distant mesas.

We had spent the day on the road, a long and tense mission, and the makeshift camp was set up in the middle of nowhere.

The motorcycles were lined up in a circle, sleeping bags open around the gently crackling fire. The smell of burning wood mingled with that of gasoline, leather, and dry dust.

The other Ghost Reapers were finally asleep.

Blight snored softly beside my bag, Diesel and Thrasher breathed deeply into their blankets, and Ember and Shade were lost in dreams I didn't envy.

I had stayed awake, as always, because the road and the desert had taught me that danger never sleeps. My gaze swept the darkness, the rifle resting within easy reach, every muscle tense yet relaxed.

And I can feel that...not everyone is asleep.

They’re here, silent, right behind me, sitting by the fire. I sense their presence even before I see them, the heat they gives off mingles with the flames, a heat that makes my head spin more than I'd ever admit. They doesn’t speak, and I don't need them to. Their silence speaks volumes; every movement, every measured breath, resonates louder than any conversation.

The wood crackles in the flames, and the heat warms my leather, damp with dust and sweat. I reach out toward the fire, feeling the warmth on my skin, and notice they moved slightly closer, silently, like an attentive ghost. My breath comes in shorter lengths, my eyes never leaving them.

“You know…”

I murmur, almost to myself.

“it’s easier to keep others safe when you’re there. Even silent… you’re…”

I leave the sentence hanging, unable to finish it. Silence spreads around us, but it isn’t oppressive. It’s soft, charged with tension, as if each second draws our bodies closer without a single word being spoken.

The desert wind blows across the mesas, and I hear the steady sound of their lungs, the soft rustle of their leather as they shifts just a little to warm themselves. Every detail becomes palpable, the heat, the scent of their cologne mingled with the smell of fire, the flicker of flames in their eyes as they reflect off their face, half-shadowed.

I feel my muscles relax a little, but my mind remains alert, vigilant for my brothers. And yet… for the first time in a long time, that alertness is intertwined with something else, a presence that makes me forget my fatigue, a tension that burns hotter than the fire at our feet.

I don't turn my head to look at them directly, but I know they’re there, attentive, silent, each breath a reminder that they’re sharing this moment with me. The night is long, but I've never been so aware of every second, every detail.

“Stay by the fire.”

My voice is low, almost a whisper on the desert wind.

“And don’t move.”

They doesn’t move.

They says nothing.

But I know they heard me.

And in that shared silence, in that icy desert and the warmth of the fire, there’s a closeness that even the road, even blood and danger, have never managed to create. A gentle tension, a quiet intimacy, that needs no words.