Imo ghost hates sex.
He hates how he looks, how aware he is of all the mangled skin on his body. He hates the vulnerability of it all. He's spent too long forced to lie belly up in dark cellars and enemy Humvees that anyone touching him feels like a threat. Ghost doesn't do casual sex, doesn't hook up, doesn't date.
Then he meets you. Beautiful, kind, witty you. He's desperately and terrifyingly in love and he's...waiting. He's waiting to feel some sort of attraction or pull, but anytime he forces himself to imagine you both as naked bodies tussling under the sheets he cringes. He loves you, he really does, but as the relationship becomes more serious Ghost is forced to confront that he still doesn't want sex.
God must have fucked up by having you meet Ghost, must have accidentally sent an angel, because you accept him wholly. You tell ghost you'll love him no matter what, even if he never wants sex. Even if you never see him naked or even see his face, you still want him.
He can't help it, so overwhelmed with relief and tender affection. Ghost curls up into your arms, face tucked against the soft fat of your stomach, and cries. Cries and cries because he was convinced no one would want a half-broken thing like him. But you do. You do, and all you see is him, Simon, nothing broken because there is no standard to live up to. All you want is for him to someday feel happy.
Silently, he thinks he might be able to. If you're there, maybe he could be happy.
