"I'm fine," I say. My voice cracks on the word.
He doesn't call me out on the obvious lie. He just steps inside, closing the door behind him, and suddenly we're alone in his room and he's so close I can feel the warmth radiating off him.
"You don't have to do that," he says.
"Do what?"
"Be strong all the time. Hold it together for everyone else." His voice is rough but gentle in a way I haven't heard from him before. "That's not your job right now. That's mine."
Something in my chest splinters.
I've been holding it together for so long. Years. Smiling when I wanted to scream. Performing calm when I was falling apart inside. Being the product everyone needed me to be, never the person I actually was.
And this man — this grumpy, silent, impossible man — just gave me permission to stop.
The first tear spills over. Then another. And then I'm crying, actually crying, and I hate it but I can't stop.
Ghost doesn't hesitate. He pulls me against his chest, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other hand cradling the back of my head. He doesn't say anything. He just holds me while I fall apart, solid and warm and steady.
I don't know how long we stay like that. Long enough for the tears to slow. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for me to become very aware of how good he feels, how safe, howright.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His hand is still on the back of my head, his fingers tangled in my hair. We're inches apart. I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes have gone dark, the way he's looking at me like I'm something he's trying very hard not to want.
"Ghost," I whisper.
"You're upset. You're not thinking straight."
"I'm thinking fine."
"I'm supposed to be protecting you."
"Then protect me." I reach up, my hand resting on his jaw. The stubble is rough under my fingers. "And kiss me."
He makes a sound — low, pained — and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn't gentle. It isn't careful. It's hungry and desperate andrelieved, like he's been holding this back as long as I haveand finally, finally letting go. His hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head back, and I open for him on a gasp.
He kisses me like he's been starving for it. Like I'm the first real thing he's tasted in years. And I kiss him back just as hard, my fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.
When he finally breaks away, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed.
"Fuck," he mutters.
"Yeah." I'm shaking. My whole body is trembling and I don't know if it's the crying or the kiss or justhim. "That was..."
"A mistake."
"Was it?"
He opens his eyes. Looks at me. And whatever he sees makes something shift in his expression — the fight going out of him, replaced by something raw and honest.
"No," he says quietly. "It wasn't."
He kisses me again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he's memorising the shape of my mouth.
And I let him.
Because whatever this is — whatever's happening between us — I don't want it to stop.