Court is now in session

Sebastian Sallow personally wouldn’t consider himself ‘overprotective’ of you; no, that sounded far too excessive. A bit melodramatic even, he’d say. If anyone cared to ask, he’d describe himself as a concerned friend–one who simply had the decent sense to look out for your best interests, when others clearly didn’t. When you first arrived at Hogwarts, wide-eyed and unfamiliar with its endless corridors, hidden passageways, whispered reputations and secrets, it had been Sebastian who stepped in. Sebastian who showed you how to navigate the ever shifting staircases, which professors to charm and which to keep your head down low, which students to keep at arm’s length, how to avoid irritating ghosts. He had made himself indispensable so naturally, so seamlessly, that it was hardly surprising you both ended up becoming best friends. Kindred spirits, truly.

Part of having your best interests at heart required attentiveness, awareness, a certain… vigilance. Sebastian excelled at all three. He practically knew you better than you knew yourself at this point. The subtle shifts in your tone of voice, the meanings behind your expressions before you even voiced them. He could tell when you were humoring someone, when you were bored, when you were genuinely interested…

That last one was why it was only natural that his ears would pick up on the conversation of the poor fool attempting to flirt with you while he stretched and prepped for his Crosswands duel. Across the room, he stretched his arms and shoulders, rolling tension out of his muscles as he eavesdropped. His gaze remained fixed on the match at the center of the room, seeming outwardly composed and entirely unbothered. Anyone watching him would think his focus was absolute. It wasn’t. Every word of your conversation carries cleanly across the room. He didn’t need to look to picture it–the way you angled your body just slightly toward the Gryffindor, the faint curve of your lips when you spoke, the polite but not entirely dismissive way you entertained him. You were being too receptive, too open.

Sebastian tells himself it’s nothing. It’s just harmless flirting. A meaningless pastime before your own duel, you’d lose interest soon enough. You always did. Lost interest and always gravitated back to him, as it should be. As it was meant to be.

Still, he continues to listen. Because of course he does. It’d be irresponsible not to! He spares a brief once-over in your general direction, immediately assessing everything. The Gryffindor–seventh year, if Sebastian remembered correctly, arrogant in the way most older students often were–leaned a little too close while speaking to you. Sebastian’s jaw tightens, just slightly.

He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, forcing his shoulders to remain loose as he flexes his fingers around his wand. He’s fine. Perfectly fine.

Then the Gryffindor laughs, low and self-assured, “Unless your overprotective guard dog takes issue with you going out without him.”

Sebastian stills. Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But inside himself, something sharp and immediate snaps, setting into place. Guard dog. The pathetic attempt of a lighthearted joke doesn’t bother him, what bothers him is the implication behind the words. That his presence in your life is something to be worked around. The mere idea that someone else thinks they can simply…step in, so long as they get through him…

Slowly, Sebastian lifts his gaze. Not towards the Gryffindor, he couldn’t give less of a damn about him. No, his eyes land on you. Because what matters—what always matters—is your reaction. Do you laugh it off? Deny it? Agree, for Godric’s sake? Because if you entertain it, if you let that idea linger, even for a second… then this flirting stops being harmless. You choose the neutral route. A slightly uneasy, fake laugh slips through you as you wave a hand dismissively to the 7th year, as if you're waving away such a notion. The Gryffindor doesn’t take notice of the out you’ve given him to drop the subject, instead he doubles down. Continues prattling on about how you’re always around the Slytherin man, that it’d be healthy to ‘meet other people’ and ‘spend time away’ from him.

Treacherous words–ones that Sebastian has no intention of letting linger. He let the moment stretch just long enough to see how far the Gryffindor was willing to go. Just long enough to confirm what he already suspects–that he’s attempting to step in between the two of you, attempting to get in the way of everything Sebastian has worked hard to build and maintain since meeting you. The Slytherin rises to his feet. A few students look over, most likely feeling the energy shift in the room as Sebastian rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. His grip tightens on his wand subtly as he walks measured, intentional, and unhurried over to you and your newest little irritation for him.

“If you’ve got something to say,” Sebastian calls, his voice smooth, carrying easily over the noise of the room, “you may as well prove it.” This time his eyes are set, locked on the Gryffindor. Anyone else would see a confident, smug smile on Sebastian’s face.

You aren’t anyone, however, and you immediately clock his expression for what it truly is: a sardonic smile with dark eyes full with the intent to harm. “Sebastian…” You say a little quietly, more in slight warning to cool it before he takes it too far. Again. He doesn’t acknowledge your light warning, whether he really heard you or not through the dark thoughts in his mind as he glares down the 7th year.

Conversations taper off, the duel that was happening in the middle of the room stops abruptly as well. Attentions turning toward the three of you as Sebastian’s challenge settles into something real. The Gryffindor huffs a quiet, mocking laugh, an arrogant grin on his face as he straightens his posture to look Sebastian in the eyes. He glances at you as if to gauge your reaction, then steps forward to Sebastian with a shrug that borders on careless. “If that’s what it takes.”

They take their places opposite each other in the center of the clock tower courtyard, wands raised. Lucan nervously flits his eyes between the two competitors for a second before quickly switching back into his upbeat, excited demeanor as he announces the duel is on. For a heartbeat, everything stills, until the Gryffindor man shouts “Expelliarmus!”, firing first, quick and confident.

Sebastian deflects the spell without effort. A flick of his wrist, clean and precise, the spell glancing harmlessly aside as if it were nothing more than annoying gnat hovering around him. The crowd erupts into cheers and competitive yells as they pick sides, some students even placing bets on who will win. Sebastian doesn’t counter immediately, his eyes never leaving the other student as he walks towards him. The Gryffindor presses again on the advancement, “Diffindo!” Sebastian side-steps the sharp slash. His motions are fluid–controlled, almost elegant–as he aims his wand towards the Gryffindor, “Levioso.”

The Gryffindor attempts to dodge but is caught mid-step, enough to break his footing and disrupt his rhythm, lifting him above the ground. Sebastian shows no mercy as he launches Confringo back to back, each spell landing on the poor Gryffindor and sending him flying backwards towards some wooden crates stacked against the stone wall near the back gate. Before the Gryffindor can regain his senses, he’s dragged back towards Sebastian, his brain hardly registering the Accio that leaves the Slytherin’s mouth.

A furious grunt escapes the Gryffindor as he fights against the spell, dropping to his feet and quickly side-rolls away from Sebastian before coming back up with a quickly aimed Bombarda. The crowd gasps a little, bombarda was off limits since the last time it was permitted, a duel ended with two students getting sent to the infirmary in the Hospital wing. Sebastian grins wickedly, knowing he’s getting under his skin, making him sloppy in his attacks, “Protego… stupefy!”

“Protego!” The Gryffindor counters his stupefy, but Sebastian is quick in sending his own Diffindo towards the 7th year. It knicks the Gryffindor’s robes, grazing his arm as the brunt of the spell slices into the ground next to his feet. A few murmurs arise near you, a group of students debating whether Sebastian missed, or meant to do that. You know the truth, as does his competitor, Sebastian didn’t aim to injure the man. It was a warning. A warning to the degree in which the poor guy is outmatched. The murmurs from the group of students next to you go silent, as if they finally clocked that this wasn’t a simple duel of egos between the two. It was a lesson.

The two men are their own lightshow as they go toe-to-toe, never surrendering to the other. It had to be the most intense fight Crosswands has seen all year.

The two men glower at one another while they pant, attempting to catch their breath. 

Sebastian glances at you. Just for a second; long enough to make sure you’re still paying attention. Of course, the Gryffindor notices, and glances between the two of you, before looking down at his tattered House robes. That famous Gryffindor pride must have taken over because he straightens, his jaw tight as he fires off a series of stronger spells. Less controlled, but there’s more force behind them than necessary.

A mistake that Sebastian notes, and doesn’t hesitate to feed on. He steps into the attack, countering easily with Protego, working on closing the distance. “Expelliarmus!” 

The Gryffindor’s wand rips clean from his grasp, skittering across the clock tower floor as the crowd lets out a crescendo of Oohs, some students cursing out loud at losing their side of the betting. 

“Levioso,” Sebastian says tauntingly, “Accio.” He brings the student close to him, looking smugly at the Gryffindor as he levitates in front of him, kicking his feet in a furious protest.

“Damn you, Sallow,” The Gryffindor hisses out, “You’re a right bastard, y’know!?”

For a brief moment, while he watches the man struggle, Sebastian contemplates exposing the darker side of magic that he’s privy to. Crucio would set this arrogant foolish student straight. Maybe, to send a final message to all of Hogwarts, he should use Imperio… have him reenact what he made the goblin that almost attacked Anne do.

A dark shadow passes over Sebastian’s face, one that makes the Gryffindor hesitate in his flurry of insults–a small inkling of dread creeping up his spine at the look on the Slytherin’s face.

“Sebastian! That’s enough!” Your voice breaks through the darkness swirling in his mind, he blinks away the thoughts before looking your way. You’re already through the crowd, walking quickly to him. His heart skips a beat at the sight. Nevermind your worried expression at his antics, he likes that you get concerned for him anyway.

“....Fine. For you.” Sebastian sighs, turning his attention briefly back to the dangling Gryffindor.

“Just remember; this dog bites.” He mumbles it low. The Gryffindor’s eyes widen slightly, he opens his mouth to sputter a reply but is cut off by Sebastian cheekily casting descendo onto him. 

“Seriously, was that necessary?” You ask him, as the poor student groans in pain, some other students are already at his side offering him wiggenweld for his injuries. “What?” Sebastian asks innocently, as you hand him a wiggenweld potion, which he accepts graciously. “Now you’re just being mean.” “More like making a point, pet.”

You roll your eyes as you two walk out of the duelling club, him leading the way to the Room of Requirement so you can patch him up and have some privacy, and to scold him for his antics.

Sebastian settles against you like he belongs there–like there was never another option–as you thread your fingers loosely through his brown locks. After you were able to give him a ‘thorough check over’, he was adamant he needed rest before he tackled you onto the bed, promptly resting himself on your stomach, while his muscular arms wrapped themselves upwards around your waist.

“Simon!”

Simon stops in his tracks, his shoulders tense as he pauses in slight confusion at the odd sensation of his stomach doing a flip at the sound of you calling his name out. He composes himself quickly, a quick clearing of his throat and he’s turning around to face you.

You’re laughing and smiling as you’re running up the driveway to him. Since when did you get so short? And has your hair always been that length? Have you always smiled so brightly, or is that recent? Did you get a new boyfriend or something? Better not…. Why is he noticing these little details about you right now?

He clears the thoughts from his head quickly and returns himself to his nonchalant facade, but it doesn’t last long because you immediately hug him in greeting. His arms wrapping around you in return, loving how you feel against his chest. He works hard to recover and plays it off coolly when you pull away from him.

“I didn’t know you were back from base already.” You say cheerily, walking forward and leading the way to your front door. Simon follows behind, sneaking a few glances down at you.

“Huh? Oh, yeah… got back an hour ago.” He says distractedly as you work on unlocking your front door, mentally cursing to himself how sweet your perfume smells.

He shifts his weight as you fumble around to find the correct key on your key ring, his eyes fixed firmly on the back of your head as if it’s a safer alternative to looking anywhere else.

You finally get the door open and step inside, holding it for him without even looking back. It’s practically muscle memory at this point. Like he belongs here permanently.

“C’mon in,” you say easily, “my brother’s upstairs, I think. He’s been waiting for you all week.”

That earns a grunt from Simon as he steps inside. The familiar house smells of warmth and something homemade greeting his senses. He closes the door behind him a little too carefully, like he’s afraid any sudden movements he makes might crack something fragile in his chest.

“All week?” He echoes, stripping off his jacket and boots. “Didn’t say that on the phone.”

You shrug, toeing your shoes off, holding onto the wall for support. “He doesn’t like sounding eager.”

Simon snorts despite himself, “Could’ve fooled me.” You laugh again and the sound lands squarely into his ribs. He’s noticed before that your laugh sticks longer with him than it should. He just never let himself think about why.

You push off from the wall and toss your jacket onto the couch as you make your way to the kitchen, slipping your hair into an easy updo. His feet carry him after you before he’s registering it.

He leans against the kitchen entryway, watching you mosey about the space, his eyes not missing how your shirt rides up a little while you’re reaching for something on the top shelf of a cabinet. He almost comes to help you, but you manage to grab it; killing his chivalrous act.

You turn your head to look at him. Your eyes flicking over him in a way that’s entirely too curious. “You look tired,” you say. “Long mission?”

“Something like that,” he replies automatically. He keeps his voice neutral, but his gaze drops half a second too long to your lips, before snapping back up. He straightens his posture, coughing awkwardly to feign that he’s just clearing his throat again.

You tilt your head. “You okay?”

There it is; the concern and quiet sincerity that makes his chest feel tight. “Fine,” he says a little too quickly. “Just need a brew and a shower.”

You smile again, softer this time. “I can make tea if you want.” He hesitates. He shouldn’t. It’s harmless. It’s normal, you’ve always offered. “…Yeah,” he says after a beat. “That’d be good.”

You turn your focus away from him to fill the kettle, and Simon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening under his mask.

Get a grip, he tells himself, that’s your mate’s sister.

But as he stands there against the doorway watching you mill about the kitchen as you’ve done a hundred times before, he can’t shake the thought settling heavy in his mind.

He’s not sure when it started. Only that it’s getting harder to pretend it hasn’t.

“Simon.”

The sound of his name slips from your lips so casually, like it doesn’t have the power to knock the breath out of him. His shoulders tense all over again, his fingers curling slightly where he’s tracing the wood trim of the doorway.

“…Yeah?” He answers, aiming for steady. It comes out rougher than intended.

You don’t seem to notice, you’re too busy rummaging through a drawer, your brow furrowed in concentration. “Do you still take two sugars, or did you finally grow up?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Oi, still do. Don’t start.”

You grin triumphantly. “Knew it.”

You click the kettle on and the brief silence that follows is filled with the soft hum of electricity and Simon becoming painfully aware of how close you are.

Too close. He could reach out easily and—No.

“Si?”

There it is again.

His jaw tightens as something warm unfurls in his chest, traitorous and unwelcome. He shifts, crossing his arms like that may somehow cage the reaction.

“What is it?” He asks, forcing himself to sound bored.

You glance over your shoulder at him, eyes bright. “You’re really back for good this time, right? Like… no surprise call at three in the morning?” The question is innocent; the hope behind it isn’t.

“Dunno,” he says after a moment. “Depends what the job needs.”

You hum softly, lips pursing in a way that makes his brain short-circuit. “Still, it’s nice having you around.”

Careful.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Guess.”

You roll your eyes at him, clearly unimpressed by his lack of enthusiasm. “You’re terrible at taking compliments, you know that?”

“Not a compliment,” he mutters. “Just a fact.”

You laugh—again—and turn back to grab two mugs from the cupboard and get them ready just as the kettle clicks off.

He takes the opportunity to sit down at the kitchen table.

“Simon,” you say once more, softer now.

He freezes.

“…What?” He replies, slower this time, his eyes fixed on your back, focusing on the familiar shape of your shoulders.

You hesitate, just for a second. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

That does it.

Something in his chest gives, a quiet, painful sort of melt that he doesn’t let reach his face. He swallows hard, nodding once. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Me too.”

You come over to where he’s sitting and hand the mug to him, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. Barely a touch, but it feels like too much. His eyes locked on where yours overlap his.

“Simon?”

When he looks up at you, something in him breaks.

He sets the mug down a little hard, the porcelain clinks sharply in the quiet of the kitchen. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s stepping closer, crowding your space without even meaning to.

You look up at him, startled, breath catching.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

Your brows knit together. “Don’t… what?”

“Say my name like that,” he says, voice low, strained, like it’s being dragged out of him. “Like it doesn’t do somethin’ to me.”

Your lips part, a soft inhale, and that sound alone nearly undoes him completely.

“I’ve been tryin’,” Simon continues, words spilling now, control fraying at the edges of his voice. “Tryin’ to keep it together. To be normal. To be your brother’s mate, to keep my distance—“

He laughs, sharp and breathless. “Doesn’t work.”

“Simon..” you whisper softly. Hearing it again, so quiet, uncertain, and gentle, is what finally pushes him over the edge.

He cups your face suddenly; hands firm but careful, thumbs brushing your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He searches your eyes for a split second; for permission, doubt, anything.

When you don’t pull away from him, he reaches up to his mask and pulls it up to his nose quickly before he’s cupping your face with both hands again and kissing you feverantly.

It isn’t soft. It’s pent up, desperate, like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally lets it go. His lips move against yours with aching familiarity, like this is something he’s imagined far too many times.

When you kiss him back hesitantly at first, but then with more surety, he exhales a shakey sound against your mouth.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breaths uneven. His hands move to your hips, he rubs soft circles with his thumbs as he walks you back so you’re against the wall. A small grin on his lips when you let out a tiny yelp at the bump of it. He gives a soft nip to your bottom lip before he’s kissing you again, then trailing butterfly kisses towards your neck.

You let out a soft, breathy moan at his ministrations, which makes him ground his hips into yours.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs. “What it’s like hearin’ my name from you. Every time you say it, it’s like you’re callin’ me. Like I’m already yours.”

Your arms are wrapped around him now, hands feeling the broad expanse of his shoulders; the taut muscles rippling under your touch.

“I don’t want to hear you say anyone else’s,” he confesses, his voice rough, honest in a way that scares him. “Don’t want you laughin’ like that for anyone else. Don’t want anyone else looking at you like— like I do.”

Simon kisses along your jawline and down your neck again, finding the sweet spot just behind your ear and nips it gently soliciting another moan from you. He nips it harder and sucks on the skin there, no doubt leaving a dark, bruising hickey in his wake. You practically melt into him, he places his leg between yours to help keep you upright as he continues his assault on your neck.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he practically purrs lowly in delight at the noises you’re making, softly grinding yourself against his knee.

“I think about you all the time.” He confesses quietly as he switches to the other side of your neck, his hand slowly slipping further under your shirt and dragging his fingers along your side, feeling how soft your skin is. “On missions. In places I shouldn’t. Wonderin’ if you’re safe. If you’re happy. If you’re thinkin’ about me too.”

“S-Simon…” you moan out, desperately aching for more friction between your legs.

“I’m obsessed," he says simply. “And I tried to stop it. God knows I did.”

He stops kissing your neck and looks at you, his eyes dark. “I should’ve kept my distance,” he rasps, his other hand coming up to the back of your neck, threading into your hair. He pulls your hair, giving him better purchase to your neck as he nips and sucks hickies into your beautiful, soft skin.

“I-I’m glad you didn’t,” you sigh out, your hands slipping under his shirt to feel his torso. He groans against you, thrusting his hips into you again at the feeling.

“Simon… please,” you whine out the words, more breathless than you intended. Simon smiles wickedly against your neck, coming back to kiss your lips, your sounds like music to his ears.

“Please what, princess?”

“Never stop kissing me.” You purr out to him, hands reaching down lower towards his belt.

Simon pulls back to give you a sly grin, his dark eyes glinting with lust as he moves his arms to the back of your thighs, lifting you up. You wrap your legs around his torso, and he starts walking you both to the spare bedroom that’s always been reserved for him whenever he’s back from work.

“I’ll do more than kiss you, princess.”

He nips at your chest as he enters the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him and locking it quickly.

He tosses you onto the king size bed, as you laugh breathlessly and crawl up further on the bed, eyeing him playfully.

Simon grabs your ankle, pulling you back down towards him and climbs on top of you. He tilts his head slightly as he looks down at you, eyes darkening and he flashes his canines with a lazy, wicked grin.

It was never with romantic intentions that Simon did the things he does with you, or at least that’s his story and he’ll be sticking with it.

“I’m adding the mushrooms whether you like it or not, it’s time to grow up!” You fought over the can of white mushrooms with Johnny in the kitchen with so much vigor that the poor man was actually beginning to work up a small sweat.

“Damn lass, since when did you get so strong?!Have you been doing extra pushups lately?” Johnny grunted as he finally grappled you into a hold you were struggling to break out of, your arms just out of reach of the saucepan as you pulled forward with all your might. Johnny pushed up under your upper arms harder, causing you to lift them up, your grip on the can of mushrooms never faltering.

“Mushrooms are gross and ruin the dish. Please, be reasonable, you damn devil!” Johnny whines, his whine cuts short when he sees Simon entering the kitchen, no doubt coming to see how the cooking was going and what all the fussing and loud thumps were about.

Johnny’s eyes practically lit up in joy at the sight of his beloved best friend, his closest confidant outside of you, his battle buddy, his— all the joy and love towards Simon evaporates immediately as Simon, his now all former best friend, closest confidant, and battle buddy took the can of mushrooms from your hand and dumps them into the saucepan that Johnny had spent the last 10 minutes defending.

You stare at Simon’s actions for a moment before you erupt into cheers and celebratorily break free from Johnny’s now defeated hold. “I knew I could always count on you, Ghostie!” You practically jump into his arms as you hug him tightly.

“Don’t call me that.” Simon gruffly corrects the nickname you’ve taken to calling him, solely because you know how much it gets under his skin.

You chuckle to yourself as you let go from your quick hug and grab the wooden spoon you’ve been using to stir the mushrooms into the sauce, making sure to evenly spread them out.

“How could you? Do you have no sense of loyalty to friends?” Johnny asks Simon, his voice wavering dramatically as if to speak of such betrayal was physically hurting him.

Simon rolls his eyes at Johnny’s antics, shaking his head at the man before clasping him on the back while he leaves for the living room again. “You’re making dinner late. Also, it’s time to grow up.”

Johnny scoffs, following after his best friend into the living room. He crosses his arms over his chest as he practically pouts at Simon, who's returning himself to his spot on the couch and not bothering to look at Johnny and his adult tantrum.

“You always take her side, y’know?” He gripes.“They’re mushrooms, MacTavish, you’ll be fine.”“Can’t believe how soft you go for her, you and your damn cr—“ Johnny shuts his mouth as he slightly turns his head to look at the knife now lodged into the wall by his ear.

“Next one, you get an earring.” Simon says darkly, holding up a second small throwing knife, his eyes unwavering on Johnny now. Johnny huffs, sidestepping away from the knife and plops himself into the recliner adjacent from his broody friend.

“You’re no fun.” He sighs, eyeing the knife in Simon’s hand, surely it isn’t that deep he’d really ruin a nice recliner over it. Simon sets the knife down on the coffee table, shrugging his shoulders in response. “Manchild.”

“Just admit you’ve grown a soft spot for the lass.” Johnny doesn’t know when to quit, that, and he’s tired of Simon’s denials.

“Name a time.” Simon challenges him, but doesn’t bother to look at him, his focus back on the tv show he was watching before he had to get up and save dinner.

“You remember every little thing she says.” Johnny deadpans.

“She talks a lot.” Simon says without delay. “Can’t ever go out at night alone?” “It’s not safe.” “Any options that include her, you’re choosing them.” “Do not.”

“You keep sayin’ it’s not romantic feelings, but I’ve seen how you look at her.” Johnny gives him an incredulous look. “Then stop lookin’.” Simon says with finality in his tone, effectively ending the conversation. Johnny just shakes his head, Simon wasn’t going to crack tonight it seems.

Your melodic voice calls from the kitchen informing them that dinner is ready, once again saving Simon from the interrogation Johnny no doubt is itching to amp up.

Simon rises from the couch without looking at Johnny and heads for the kitchen. Johnny follows suit, preparing a plate and joking with you about the mushrooms.

Johnny doesn’t comment as he sits at the kitchen table, watching as Simon takes a seat right next to you. Doesn’t comment when he notices how your knee is brushing against Simon’s under the table. Doesn’t comment on how Simon, the most guarded man he knows, the man he’s watched shove new recruits and teammates away from him just for standing too close in his self-deemed personal space, doesn’t move away from you.

Or the subtle postural shift Simon does with his seat so you’re closer.

Ghost watched as your eyes caught the light from the streetlight, making them sparkle like something out of a dream. He absentmindedly mirrored the way you interlocked your pinky with his, sealing the promise. You had insisted it was a "sworn vow," and Ghost had no reason to argue. A pinky promise was something sacred, at least, according to you.

There was something about the way you took things so seriously sometimes, even when they seemed trivial to him. He didn’t mind it, though. Currently, his mind was elsewhere. He was focused on how small your hands seemed in comparison to his own. The promise he’d just made to you echoed in his skull.

“If I’m ever in trouble… promise you’ll come save me?”

It was meant as a joke, mostly. Simple and lighthearted. He wasn’t used to talking about these kinds of things, especially considering the work he did. His line of work didn’t leave room for it. The bubble he’d created with you—and Soap, he supposed, but primarily it was you that changed their lives—was much different to the life he had while deployed or while on base. Being home was like the warm sun melting away the snow during spring.

You leaned in slightly, your gaze intense. For a moment, Ghost forgot how to breathe. Your hands, delicate and small, felt fragile in his, a sharp contrast to the roughness of his own. He noticed how easily you fit against his side, how different the world felt when he was with you. And as he thumbed over the back of your hand, he felt something unexpected; something soft that tugged at him.

"…Hey, are you listening to me?" Your voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to you. You were waving your free hand in front of his face, breaking his trance. “Earth to Ghost?”

Ghost blinked, clearing his throat as he focused on your face. "Always," he said, his voice low and steady, though he knew it was more of a reflex than an answer to your question.

You smiled brightly, "Then c’mon, we need to hurry before they close!"

You started tugging on his arm, and for a moment, Ghost found himself caught up in your energy. He followed your lead, matching your quickening pace, and soon, the two of you were moving side by side again, just like before.

He was about to sigh and ask where the hell you were dragging him when you suddenly stopped in front of a small café, its warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk from the giant front windows. You were grinning at him, your eyes sparkling with excitement.

Ghost’s gaze moved from you to the café’s front door. "Here?" he asked, his voice low, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze.

You beamed at him, and he swore the sun had to be jealous of the brightness in the smiles you give off. “Yep! I thought we’d stop by for a bit. After all, you’ve been talking about this place for ages.”

He blinked, confused. “What? I—” And then it hit him. The café. The same one he'd mentioned so many times in passing. The one that had been his little escape after rough missions, nights he couldn’t sleep, the place where he first met you with Soap. It was so... you to surprise him like this, but it still caught him off guard.

A strange warmth spread through his chest, and he couldn't suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips. You were full of surprises.

You reached for his hand again, but this time, it was with a different energy. There was something celebratory about your touch. "Surprise," you said softly, though your tone this time sounded a little bashful. "This place... it’s where we first met, remember? And today marks exactly one year since we became friends."

Ghost’s breath caught, and for a split second, he didn’t know what to say. One year? It felt like so much longer and yet, also like it had flown by in an instant. He remembered that night so clearly; the awkward introduction, the way you'd casually slid into his world without asking, the easy banter that followed.

Over time, that casual friendship had become something deeper, something Ghost wasn’t sure how to define, but something he couldn't imagine being without. Refused to be without.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there, his thoughts going back to the silly promise you’d made him swear 30 minutes ago. Of course he’d always save you… you’d forever be priority number one, first and foremost.

In fact, he and Soap would spar at the base while discussing various ways they’d save the day if it ever came down to it, each method more insane than the last.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice softer than usual. “One year, huh? Didn’t realize I’d been stuck with you for so long,” he teased, his eyes flicking to yours with a small, genuine smile in them at the corners.

You laughed, the sound light and free. “Well, you’re lucky. I’m excellent company.”

“Yeah, is that how you describe it?” he muttered, but there was a warmth in his tone that betrayed the usual sarcasm.

You tugged him gently toward the door. “Come on, let’s go in. I’ve been dying for one of those Earl Grey teas you always rave about.”

Ghost smiled, the familiar tug in his chest growing stronger. As you both stepped inside, the warmth of the café wrapping around you like a hug, Ghost felt a sense of peace settle over him. He followed you to a table near the window, people watching for a moment before he heard the click of a camera. His eyes immediately finding the phone in your hand as you giggled, already tapping away on the screen.

“Sending this one to the group chat, first to tease Johnny, but also to see if he’ll want something before we head back.” You explain, hitting send and setting your phone down in favor of grabbing a small menu to look through.

Ghost didn’t say anything, just gave his usual “mhm” hum, but a small smile tugged at his lips as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, no doubt Soap spamming the groupchat.

*****************************************************

3am and had the urge to write… used my phone and tumblr mobile so i’ll edit tmrw morning

╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗

You moved around the kitchen barefoot, humming quietly while the eggs sizzled in the pan. It was meant to be a one time thing, a small thank you breakfast for Simon and Johnny for helping you drag a month’s worth of groceries up three flights of stairs the night before due to the apartment complex’s elevators being down for maintenance. 

You started the coffee maker and popped in pieces of bread into the toaster, turning around to grab jam from the fridge. Grabbing three plates, you turned back to the stove and plated the two eggs you’d finished cooking before cracking another two into the pan. 

You turned around and nearly jumped out of your skin, a small yelp leaving you before you composed yourself. Spatula raised in front of yourself like a weapon. Simon stood in the doorway of the kitchen like a shadow waiting to be acknowledged. He arched an eyebrow at your reaction, and to the spatula in your hand. “If that’s your defense stance, you won’t last 5 seconds.” Something akin to a gruff laugh came from him as he stepped into the kitchen. You lowered your tactical spatula, shaking your head with an easy laugh, and turned back to grab the plate of eggs.

“Didn’t mean t’startle you,” he says, grabbing a mug for the coffee that was almost finished brewing. “Smelled something cookin’, so came to make sure it wasn’t Johnny again.”

You held the plate out to Simon, and he looked down at it and then you. “Breakfast. Y’know, to say thanks…” you say, and he reaches for it, fingers brushing yours for a moment.

“Thanks for what?” he asks, and you shrug your shoulders. “Helping me bring the groceries in last night when the elevators were down.” “Y’don’t have to cook over that.” “That’s what makes me so nice,” you say with a cheeky grin, and he only stares while you turn back to the stove, seasoning the next bout of eggs. 

The toaster pops up, and before you can turn your attention to it, Simon beats you to it. “You can go eat, really, I got it.” You tell him, scrapping the eggs onto the second plate for Johnny. “That’s what makes me so nice.” he replies, echoing your words back to you.

“Did you just… make a joke?” you feign shock and surprise, to which Simon rolls his eyes.

“Aye, who’s cookin’?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the small moment as he walks into the kitchen, already eyeing the food. “I’m making breakfast, as a thank you,” you tell him, “For helping me bring the groceries up last night.”

“Ahh, my valiant efforts are being repaid… finally, recognition where I love it most—food.” Johnny smiles, grabbing the plate you held out for him and immediately grabs a fork to take a bite.

Before the fork can reach his lips, Simon’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the wrist. “We eat together or not at all.” His tone leaves no room for argument. Johnny grumbles dramatically as he shuffles towards the kitchen table, fork now properly abandoned. Simon doesn’t make eye contact with you while he grabs another two mugs and fills them with coffee. 

You stifle a laugh as you finish cooking the last of the eggs, plating your own dish and bringing yours and Simon’s plates to join Johnny at the table. You pull out your own chair, sitting down with Johnny, about to get up when you realize you forgot your coffee but Simon’s right there to set your mug down. You notice he’s prepped it exactly how you like it… small signs he pays attention to your habits. He says nothing as he takes a seat next to yours, and Johnny playfully huffs a ‘finally’. Johnny gives you a quick ‘thanks for the food’ before he dives right in, chowing away as if he hasn’t eaten real food in days. Simon eats with quiet, methodical precision in comparison to Johnny, but his gaze flicks up every so often–at you, at Johnny, like he’s silently counting heads, mentally checking that everyone’s present and accounted for.

It’s… oddly sweet.

Johnny points at you with his fork. “This is the best breakfast I’ve had all week, lass.” “It’s Tuesday.” Simon replies flatly.

“Exactly,” Johnny says, as if that somehow proves his point further.

“Well, I appreciated the help, seriously,” you say, breaking off a piece of toast. “I know I bought way too much, but the deals were insane.”

Johnny nods sagely. “Carbs are life.” Simon grunts. “You bought 5 jars of marinara.” “It was a really good sale,” you defend yourself, “besides, you guys eat like a small army anyways.” Simon’s eyes crinkle behind the mask, “Warn us next time, I’ll bring a trolley.” Johnny nearly chokes on his toast from laughing. “Lt’ll show up lookin’ like a Tesco employee.” “He’d do it for the pasta,” you add teasingly. Simon picks up his coffee again, shaking his head, no doubt asking himself how he ended up stuck with you two.

The three of you fall into an easy silence after that, the kind that happens when people are truly comfortable with one another; forks clinking, Johnny humming under his breath, Simon occasionally glancing toward the doorway like he’s guarding the perimeter of the kitchen.

Halfway through your plate, you realize Simon still hasn’t touched the toast you buttered for him. “You don’t like buttered toast?” He looks down at it, then back at you. “Didn’t say that.” “You haven’t eaten it,” you counter, although not offended if he didn’t want to. He stares for another few seconds, then slowly picks it up and takes a bite–deliberately, like he’s making a point. Johnny snorts at him.

“What?” Simon asks sharply, voice muffled through his chewing. “Nothin’,” Johnny lies, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Just… adorable, that’s all.” Simon gives him a cutting glare, and Johnny raises both hands up in mocking surrender. “I retract my statement, I take it back. Didn’t mean it.”

When breakfast is over, you stand and start gathering the dishes, but Simon’s hand shoots out, touching your wrist. Briefly. Warm and firm. “I’ve got it.” He says. “You sure?” “You cooked.” He nods once, taking the plates and walking to the sink.

Johnny stretches and leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Look at us, bein’ all domestic. Next thing y’know, we’ll be doin’ chore charts.” Simon doesn’t turn around or look up from where he’s rinsing the plates off. “No.” Johnny wiggles his eyebrows at the sharp and firmness of his voice. “You afraid of a little teamwork, Lt? Though, from this angle, you’d make a great house hus-” Simon flicks a dish towel at Johnny with sniper-like precision, hitting him square in the face. Johnny yelps, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out as you still lean forward to check on him as he holds his cheek, whining and grumbling about how bad it hurts and how it was just a damn joke. ╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝

Following orders, as Ghost would put it, is not one of your strong suits. Tonight was no different. You wanted to go clubbing with your friends, and had begged your father to let you go out for one night of fun. He had agreed under one stipulation… Ghost goes and stays within arm’s reach at all times.

He’d been glued to you the second you stepped out of the car. Like a tower. Unmoving. Mask on, arms crossed, eyes always scanning. His presence is like a dark storm cloud hovering over your shoulder. Ever the vigilant protector. So, you do the only reasonable thing. You push every one of his buttons. You’re good at it, you’ve had practice. Ghost is all rules and discipline, and you’re… not.

The bass shakes the floor hard enough that you feel it in your chest, a rolling pulse that drowns out everything except the slick heat of bodies moving under neon lights.

You dance with your friends, pretending not to notice the way he glares every time someone brushes too close to you on the dance floor. Sipping drinks and pretending you don’t see him stiffen when a guy touches your waist. You laugh a little louder when his gloved hand twitches like he’s imagining breaking someone’s fingers. Getting under his skin was a favorite pastime of yours. Was it bratty? Absolutely.

However, Ghost could afford to loosen up every now and then. He was always so uptight. Always strictly business. You imagine those tense, broad shoulders loosening up as he lets a genuine laugh out… how sweet the sound would be. Unfortunately, you weren’t here tonight to help him ease up. Originally, you tried to, truly. You offered him drinks, to dance, to just sit and chat, anything to break through the tough exterior he always had on display for the world. Per the usual, your efforts were met with deadpanned brown eyes. He was lucky his eyes were a dreamy shade, otherwise you’d probably act much worse.

You continue to dance with your friends, thinking of ways to get under your bodyguard’s skin. When one of your friends trips up a bit and briefly distracts Ghost, you take the moment to slip away further into the bustling crowd as more people flood the dance floor and the strobing lights make it harder to see. 

Looking back as you near the exit doors, you already catch him at the edge of the crowd. Shoulders squared, his head turning like a predator scenting for prey before those keen sharp eyes lock on you.

You flash a cheeky smile and give a little wave before slipping right out the exit doors, confident you made that muscle in his jaw tick.

You breathe in the night air as you exit, before turning to stroll down the alleyway just next to the club when you hear him call your name once–sharp, clipped, and irritated. You keep your pace, a small grin on your face while you hear the fast, steady, and heavy pace of his footsteps. He’s not running. He doesn’t need to, he moves like someone who knows he’ll catch you no matter what you do.

“Enough.”

The word lands on your ears like a gunshot. You spin just in time to see Ghost halfway to you. You take a step back and turn to bolt. You make it maybe three strides before a hand closes around your wrist like steel. Ghost pulls you back so fast your breath leaves you in a small, embarrassing yelp.

He turns you around, pinning you against the rough brick wall with his body sealing the space, his forearm braced near your head to cage you in. You can feel the heat coming off him, feel the way his chest rises and falls harder than usual. He’s not winded. He’s pissed.

“Run again,” he growls, voice low and gravelly through his mask, “and I’ll throw you over my shoulder.” Your typical cheeky smile is in place as you grin up at him. “Aw, you came all this way for me?”

His jaw flexes, but this time it's the kind of flex that means you’re two seconds away from being manhandled back into the car.

“Stop laughing,” he says, stepping closer, “and listen. Just once in your life.” “I am listening,” you say sweetly. “Just not obeying.”

His gloved hand comes up fast–not to grab you, but to brace beside your head as he leans in. You can feel his breath ghost across your cheek, warm and heavy. He’s close. Too close.

“If you’re done testing my patience,” he says, each word dragged through his teeth, “get in the damn car.” You arch a brow. “You gonna drag me there if I say no?”

His eyes, the only part of his face you can see, narrow dangerously, something dark glitters in them. “You think this is a game.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“It’s a little fun,” you admit, “Watching you get all tense… clenching your jaw like you’re dying to yell at me but can’t because–” “Because it means someone could’ve touched you.” His voice drops lower, the anger shifting into something darker, more raw. “Because you walked off in a club crowded with half-drunk men staring at you like you were an easy target. You don’t pull shit like that again… not with all the eyes on you. Not with the threats against you. Not with me responsible for keeping you breathing.”

You don’t smile this time.

Ghost’s hand moves carefully to your cheek, his thumb skimming along your jaw. The contact is shockingly gentle for someone who just chased you down with his chest heaving with fury. You swallow lightly, your pulse jumps. He feels it, you know he does–he’s too close not to.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. A gentle blow of the night air down the alley makes you shiver. A small pout on your lips as his words sink in, knowing you might’ve over done it this time. Ghost’s eyes flick to your mouth for a second. He drops his hands, steps back, and forces his control into place. “Now,” his tone is razor-thin, “get in the car.”

This time you listen. Careful steps forward, only glancing back once to see if he’s behind you. Sure enough, he’s on you like he’s your shadow. Those dark eyes locking onto yours immediately, making you snap your head forward and a small blush creeps its way across your cheeks. 

Heat creeps up your neck as you walk to the car, feeling absurdly like you’re being marched in for booking. As you leave the alleyway and start walking past the entrance to the club again, you spot your friends outside, no doubt looking for you too. “Girl! Where did you go!? We were frantic lookin’ for you, c’mon babe, they’re playing your song!” One of your friends squeals to you, but the excitement in their voice dies down when they see the deathglare coming from your bodyguard. “O-or on second thought… we’ll catch up later.” They practically clamber over each other to get back inside the club and out of sight of the pissed off man behind you. You let out a small giggle to yourself, you love your friends dearly, but you know Ghost would never hurt anyone you care about. You think, at least. He’s never mentioned any acts of violence against your friends, anyways.

“What’s funny?” Ghost’s voice wraps around you like smoke, and you shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, not wanting to seem as though his alleyway speech got to you. “Nothing, sir.” You chastise him on the last bit as he opens the car door for you, missing the way his hand grips the door a little harder than necessary as you lower yourself into the vehicle. 

He shuts the door after you’re properly in and shakes his head as he walks around to the driver’s side. He hates how easily he lets you under his skin. He opens his own side and settles in, grip tight around the steering wheel as his mind replays the alleyway. Of how your pulse jumped at his touch, your pouty lips, how your eyes–he grunts and resituates himself in his seat to clear his head of the thoughts. He busies his other hand with the gearshift as he drives you both back home. As Ghost drives and you silently stare out the window, no doubt pouting again to yourself now, he glances briefly over to where you sit in the passenger seat. Silence passes between the two of you but the tension doesn’t leave. It clings…. Thick, electric, and hungry. Something tells you both this isn’t the end of it. Not even close.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

You stare at the blood on his gloves. “What did you do?” Your voice trembles; you’ve never seen him like this. You knew Simon’s work in the abstract, the necessary distance he insisted on–best if you knew less, he said, because ignorance was safety. Is this what safe looks like?

You’re frozen in the dark threshold of his bedroom doorway–caught before he could get away with it all. He tilts his head. “What I always do.” then, softer–so soft it almost doesn’t reach your ears. “If you knew the things I’ve thought about doing to anyone who even looks at you–” he trails off, eyes flicking up to yours, something raw and unguarded slipping through.

“You’d never smile at me again.”

Your throat tightens, but you can’t look away. His voice keeps unraveling, quieter than the lethality in his words. “I’d tear the world apart if it meant keeping you mine.” He strides towards you until the hallway wall presses against your back, caging you. His gloved thumb drags across your cheek, leaving a faint red line as if branding you with the truth. “You don’t want to know how many I’ve already silenced for less.”

He drops his gaze to his hand, studying the stains on his glove like they’re a confession in themselves. “You think this is bad?” he murmurs. “You should hear the thoughts I have when some bastard makes you laugh. That’s worse than blood.” When his eyes lift again, they burn through you. “Because at least this washes off.”

A small whimper slips from you. You should duck under his arms, run, do anything but stand here like a trapped rabbit–but your legs don’t move. “You don’t understand,” He straightens in front of you, peeling one glove off, then the other, each finger slow and deliberate; the red-stained sins drop to the floor between you. “I’ve killed for less than a smile. And you–” his voice cracks on the words, low and rough, “–you hand them out like they’re free.”

A humorless laugh rasps from his chest. His hand presses to your shoulder–neither gentle nor rough. “If you knew the list of names…all the men who thought they had a right to look at you… Christ.” His thumb digs into your skin, an anchor, a warning. “You’d hate me. But I’d do it again. Every time.”

You tilt your head up at him, eyes wide in awe of the man before you, the man you thought you knew. He leans in, almost towering. “I’ve thought about what it’d be like if you ever left. If you ever tried,” A pause. A whisper, like he’s telling a secret: “There wouldn’t be a corner of the Earth safe for you. Not one.”

His words hang heavy, thick as smoke. You don’t realize you’re trembling until his gaze flicks down sharply, catching the subtle shake of your hands.

His eyes darken at the sight, then come back to meet your own. He tilts his head, as if savoring it. “Are you afraid of me?”

The question is deliberate; he already knows the answer. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You don’t know what to say, what would be safer to admit. A low rumble slithers out of him–half scoff, half approval. He lifts his hand and brushes calloused knuckles along your jaw. The touch is careful, almost tender, and everything about it screams possessive.

“You should be,” he murmurs, not as a warning, but as a verdict. Satisfaction edges his tone; whether it’s love or fear that keeps you tethered to him makes no difference. Either way, you belong to him. You watch his knuckles flex, and for a moment you see Ghost in full: violence barely leashed, hunger coiled and ready. His breath drags out in a harsh exhale; he pulls back from you. Just an inch or so. Restraint. Enough to remind himself not to break what he wants to keep.

The silence hums between you. His chest rises, a sharp inhale followed by a steadier exhale, as if dragging a storm back inside himself. When his eyes meet yours again, the burn has dimmed–not gone, never gone, but banked, buried deeper within.  Hidden beneath the soft browns of eyes you recognize.

You were never supposed to be someone to Ghost. It was all supposed to be an easy thing. Just roommates. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a place to crash and sleep at night.

Smoke comes from his mouth as he breathes out a silent sigh. His eyes linger around the bar while Soap and some other men from work chat away next to him, subconsciously looking for you in the groups of people, a ridiculous notion–he knows, because why did he care? You were just his roommate, he didn’t need to know your whereabouts or plans for every evening. He takes another drag from his cigarette.

Ghost wasn’t sure when the change in everything began. It wasn’t something he planned, nor was it a conscious decision on his part to even have happened.

His best guess was that you just slowly began to grow on him. Your little habits implanting themselves into his daily life, once an irritation he’d had to work around and adjust to, became somewhat of an expectation within his daily routines.

“Just roommates.” became something more afterwards. Ghost caught himself enjoying your company. Wondering what you were doing when you weren’t home to terrorize him over various things; the shower, the washer and dryer, humming or singing obnoxiously loud as you cooked dinner, hogging the living room tv and demanding him and Soap watch whatever garbage show you were into for the week. Cancelling his plans or dates occasionally if he knew you were staying in. Movie nights on Saturdays, lazy Sunday morning talks while you attempted to get him to try whatever new coffee creamer you liked.

He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. Just a shared apartment. A contract on paper, three names scribbled across a lease. But his body betrayed him more than his mind cared to admit. His ears picked up your voice before anyone else’s, no matter the crowded space. Whether he liked to admit it or not, everything or anything to do with you, he’d begun to notice. He blows out smoke again, taking a swig of the whiskey he had hardly touched since arriving.

A laugh tossed across the room drew his eyes without thought, without permission. That’s when he spots you–leaning against the bar with a drink in hand, the dim lights providing a soft glow that compliments your features, as you chatted with someone he didn’t recognize. A friend? A date? His jaw clenched before he could stop it. He takes a drag once more from his cigarette, but it didn’t do much to soothe the irritation buzzing low in his chest.

It shouldn’t matter. What you do is your own business.

Except it does matter.

His mind flickers back to just last week: your voice carrying down the hall as you sang along–off-key, bloody awfully–to a song you loved. He’d sworn he was going to bang on your door and tell you to shut it. But as he approached your room, he found himself leaning against the doorway instead, listening. You were doing your makeup on the floor in front of your body mirror. When you caught him watching, you gasped, wide-eyed and embarrassed, he’d muttered something gruff about ‘noise complaints’, to which you threw a makeup brush at him as he disappeared before you could notice the corner of his mouth twitch. And now, here he was, trying not to notice you laughing at someone else’s jokes. Trying not to imagine you dragging that same easy warmth back to their place the way you always dragged him and Soap into your nonsense at home. Ghost forced himself to look away. The glowing tip of his cigarette became far more interesting than the way you leaned a little too close to the stranger beside you. He reminded himself of the walls he’d built, the discipline he prided himself on.

You’re just a roommate.

Still, his shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, and as always–Soap caught it. “Yer starin’,” Soap muttered under his breath, elbow nudging his arm. His grin was already in place, eyes flicking towards the bar. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, eh?” Ghost gave him a flat look, but didn’t answer. He merely took another drink from his glass, letting the silence speak for him. Soap wasn’t the type to leave silence alone. Maybe that’s why you two clicked so well. “Don’t tell me it’s because of her.” A quick tilt of his chin towards your direction. “Our lovely roommate, havin’ a grand ol’ time. Looks right at home, doesn’t she?”

“Drop it, Johnny.” he said, sharper than he had intended. Naturally, that only made Soap’s grin widen. “Ahh, so it is about her. Thought so. Y’know, you’ve been different these past few months. Not sayin’ you’ve gone soft but…” He leans in closer, dropping his voice so the other men don’t hear him, “Maybe just a touch around the edges, aye?” Ghost said nothing. He’d never give Soap the satisfaction. However, his gaze had already betrayed him, sliding back across the bar, tracing the curve of your smile, the easy way you brushed a strand of hair out of your face as you laughed along with whatever was being said.

He hated it. Hated how the line had blurred without his permission. How you’d become part of his routines, part of his thoughts, part of the very air he breathed in that now seemingly cramped apartment. “Careful, Lt,” Soap murmured, smirk audible in his voice. “Keep lookin’ like that and people’ll start talkin’.” 

Ghost ignored him, finishing off his whiskey in choice of a reply. The burn in his throat easier to handle than the twist in his chest. He took one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out into the ashtray with more force than necessary. 

You were still there across the room, smiling as the stranger leaned in again, and Ghost’s fists itched for a fight he had no claim to. Just a roommate. Just a lease. Nothing more.

He tore his eyes away, forcing himself to relax against the bar stool, casual posture hiding the storm underneath. But the truth sat heavy in his chest, undeniable now, no matter how many walls he stacked around it.  Because “nothing more” had already slipped into something else entirely. And he knew–whether he wanted to admit it aloud or not–there was no going back.