The man beneath him gags on blood and dirt, coughing against the heavy, suffocating pressure of Ghost’s boot pinning him to the asphalt of the parking lot. 

Ghost looks down at his knuckles. Split open again, red blood smearing into the creases of his fingers. Cold brown eyes flick back to the man, “Fucked up look in your eyes earlier,” Ghost mutters, “Like you thought somethin’ was yours.” 

The warm orange glow of a flickering streetlight nearby casts long, distorted shadows. The parking lot is empty, eerily quiet. Not even the evening summer birds chirpings were present—making the whole world feel as if it was holding its breath in wake of the scene playing before it.

The man wheezes, choking slightly on the blood dripping from his nose to his mouth, voice hoarse, a weak sputtering attempt to get his words out. “I-I didn’t even—fuck–I didn’t even touch her, man—”

Ghost tilts his head, slow and deliberate, unsettling. Like he’s studying a puzzle he already solved hours ago. Like he’s bored with the answer.

“Tell me—” Ghost’s voice dips low, gravel and steel, “—what was it you liked? Her legs? Her laugh? The way she smiled up at me when I handed her the coffee?” ignoring the previous statement. He’s heard it all before, the usual cries and pleas for forgiveness, the promises to stay away forever, to never speak of what’s about to happen—all vain attempts for some form of salvation from Ghost’s unhinged insanity.

It was too late though, this man was dead the moment he catcalled you on the street. His sweet girl.

Ghost’s phone vibrates and he pulls his phone from his pocket, staring down at the screen. Your name glows back at him. “miss you :) excited for tonight!! what movie should we watch?♡♡”

You’re so fucking cute.

He stares at your text with something akin to thrill and obsession all twisted into one unbearable thing. Imagines for a split second how he’ll make it up to you for making you miss him.

He texts back. “On my way.” He slides his phone back into his pocket.

“Time t’wrap it up,” Ghost says, crouching down to look the man in the eyes. “Please…God…please,” The man rasps, blood and spit mixing against the asphalt, forcing desperate gasps for air.  Ghost tilts his head curiously this time, a dark, sadistic laugh escaping from deep in his chest. “Lil’ late for God, ain’t it?”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

He shows up at your apartment forty-five minutes later, hands hastily cleaned but still bruised and raw. 

 “Simon!” You beam, you don’t even notice at first—just throw your arms around his waist, dragging him into your soft little world with a smile. Your cheek presses to his chest, your body warm and soft against his. He doesn’t hug you back at first. Just stands there, looking down at you. Like he doesn’t deserve this. Like he can’t believe he gets to have this.

It’s a brief moment of thought though as he wraps his arms around you—tight. You don’t complain though, loving his bear hugs. Ghost rolls his mask up just to his nose so he can kiss you. He lifts you up from under your thighs, making you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to the living room—earning squeals of delight and fake protests as he kisses and nips at your neck.

 He gently places you on your back onto the couch, hovering over you and caging you beneath him. “Missed you s’much, pretty girl.” he murmurs in between trailing kisses on your neck. You laugh breathlessly, cradling his face with your hands, thumbs softly rubbing the sliver of exposed skin on his cheeks—bringing him to look you in the eyes. Those gorgeous, brown eyes you adore so much. 

“Missed y’more.” You whisper back, planting a soft kiss to his lips, your eyes soft and bright, moving your hand to gently rub your thumb across his bottom lip as you smile sweetly at him.

He loves it. Your softness, your warmth, the way you look at him like he’s good.

You move your hands from his face, fingers drifting down his arm, tracing his tattoos—you freeze when you catch sight of his hand. Your smile falters. “Simon…” you murmur, voice filled with concern and alarm as you take his hand gently in yours. “Your knuckles…” you give him a frown, biting your bottom lip worriedly as you inspect his knuckles further.

He hesitates—just a moment—before the lie slips out smoothly. Like it has all the other times. “Trainin’ went long today,” he schools his voice into something soft, something he knows calms you, “S’nothin’, love, wasn’t watchin’ myself.” 

You nod, fully accepting the lie. “Let me clean them, I don’t want you getting an infection.” So caring. Always so perfect to him.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

His knuckles are a mess. Bruised and raw, a bit swollen and still mostly red. You hold him so carefully, like you’re afraid you’ll hurt him just by looking too long. He watches you quietly, letting you cradle the damage like it’s something delicate. Like he’s something that can be mended by a kiss and a bandaid. 

“Hold still,” you whisper softly, gently dabbing his knuckles with antiseptic ointment. “You’re lucky you’ve got me to patch you up.” You tease him, another precious grin gracing your features to him, he leans slightly back onto the couch, taking you in as you tend to him.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Lucky, yeah.” His voice is low. Loaded. You look up at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothin’, sweetheart. Just thinkin’.” 

About how sweet you are. How stupid the world is for thinking it could touch you. How no else has the right to make you smile like the way you smile for him. About how if anyone ever even tries—

“Promise me you’ll be more careful.” Your voice breaks through his thoughts. You have an adorable pout on your lips, your thumbs gently ghosting the edges of his battered knuckles, “Please, Simon?” Yes. Anything for you.

He watches you—silent, still–as you bring his hand to your lips. You kiss it. Once. Twice. Three soft, lingering kisses to each torn-up knuckle, like that could erase the violence they’ve committed.

“Pretty girl…” his voice low, like a dark purr low in his chest, “You can’t go around doin’ that. You’ll ruin me.” You blink up at him, confused and sweet—doe-eyed, innocent. “Doing what?”

His eyes drop to your lips. “That,” he says, voice rough, sensual almost. “Kissin’ the parts of me that don’t deserve it.” You smile again, sweet and full of certainty, and press one final kiss to the inside of his hand before guiding it to your chest, over your heart.

“You deserve all of it.” you whisper, rising from where you were sitting when cleaning up his knuckles. His eyes track your every move, dark and hazy, heat simmering just beneath the surface. He watches as you straddle his lap–meant to be sweet, comforting…but you’re completely unaware of the way you’re unraveling him. He doesn’t answer.  Just smiles—slow and lazy—like he knows something you don’t. One hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers drawing soft, slow circles just above your hip. The other finds your throat—a semi-gentle squeeze—dragging up gently to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.

Then he leans in, lips grazing your throat. “Pretty girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with desire, “You’ve got no idea.” 

He tugs your hair just enough to make you gasp, arching your back—then swallows the sound with his mouth on yours, fierce and hungry, like he’s starving for something only you can give.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

And afterwards? He integrated himself into your life with remarkable operational efficiency. Attentive. Responsive. Always anticipating your needs as if he’d mapped out your behavioral patterns ahead of schedule. You didn’t have a formalized relationship framework yet—no strategic discussion, no scope definition—but the working assumption was that you were, effectively, dating.

Tonight was supposed to be another low-stake engagement: movie night at his place. He’d gone to the kitchen to source snacks, insisting on end-to-end ownership of the evening’s logistics. You sat on his bed, taking a momentary operational initiative to locate the film on his laptop. The same film, coincidentally, that had defined your childhood comfort zone.

His desktop loaded. A folder name surfaced.

“y/n y/l/n. 2024”

Your internal alarms pinged immediately. 2024? That was outside your known shared timeline. You hadn’t even been onboarded into his life back then.

A professional boundary check would have advised you to stop. Not access personal files. Maintain compliance.

But curiosity executed a full override.

You opened it—and your entire system froze.

The folder contained photos. Hundreds. All of you.

Not the curated ones you’d taken together recently. No. These were archival. Unauthorized. Field-captured.

You leaving a shop. You at a party with friends. You arguing with your ex. The windows of your apartment—angles that should have been impossible for anyone inside to obtain.

You felt your pulse spike, a full-scale internal incident escalation.

Then the bedroom door opened.

A moment later, he entered—voice warm, casual, fully aligned with his usual brand tone.

“So,” Simon called out, balancing snacks with an ease that now felt unsettling, “ready for movie night?”

He smiled. Relaxed. Confident.

And in that moment, as you looked from him to the glowing laptop screen, the disparate data points you’d ignored for months began integrating into one clear operational truth: