dontmakemebabyblue

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𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟏 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟑 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟒

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this part is super short (at least you get Ghost being a big softy heehee) sorry! the next part will be a lot longer i promises! 🫶

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The lantern burned low, spitting the last of its light against the cabin walls. Shadows slid in and out of the corners like slow waves. Ghost sat in the armchair by the bed, still and silent, mask discarded.

You’d fallen asleep curled slightly toward the wall, face half-buried in the pillow, breath slow. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

He told himself he was just keeping watch.

But the truth of it sat quieter than that. It lived in the way his gaze kept drifting back to you, catching on the way the lamplight brushed your features. the little crease between your brows even now, the edge of your cheek against the pillow.  

the soft shape of your mouth.

You were always carrying something in the lines of your body, even asleep. Like you didn’t know how to put it down but there was still a kind of softness in you. Not weakness. Not fragility. Just… softness. Rare. Like snow in summer. And under all that quiet, there was intelligence. He could see it in your eyes when you spoke, when you didn’t. That sharp, steady way you took things in. 

It had caught him off guard, that look. That quiet knowing behind your gaze.

He shifted just slightly, stretching one leg out farther, arms folded across his chest. It was you he was watching now. Not the door. Not the shadows.

You stirred.

At first, it was nothing. A breath caught too high. A twitch of fingers.

Then the dream took hold.

Your jaw clenched, head pressing deeper into the pillow. A soft sound slipped out almost a whimper, but tighter, more contained. You flinched. Like something had reached through the dark and grabbed you.

Ghost leaned forward, slowly.

Your breathing hitched again, shallow now. Panicked. Legs tensing under the blanket like you were running.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move to wake you. He just watched. Let the storm play out behind your closed eyes.

Then a breath that hitched sharp and sudden. Your body jerked beneath the blanket, and your brow furrowed, the kind of furrow born from fear, not frustration.

Ghost was on his feet before he could think.

kneeling beside the bed, he watched helpless as his fingers moved on their own to brushed the edge of the blanket where it had slipped down your arm, and he pulled it up again. Tucked it close to your shoulder. The smallest gesture. But deliberate.

You quieted. Not all at once, but slowly. Like some part of you still knew he was there.

He stayed close, elbows resting on his knees again, eyes never leaving your face.

There was something sharp in his chest, but not pain. Just a kind of pressure. The weight of watching someone fight shadows with no weapon but their mind. And knowing what it was to lose.

“You’re alright,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You shifted, just barely, like even in sleep some piece of you knew.

Ghost stayed like that for a long while, not bothering to check his watch or scan the windows again. For the first time in a long time, his focus was narrowed to one thing.

The slow return of your breath to calm.

The faint crease in your brow smoothing.

The silence wrapping you both in something that wasn’t fear.

Wasn’t adrenaline.

Just quiet.

He leaned back at last, gaze still on you, and let the hush settle over him again.

I’ll be here, he’d said earlier.

And he meant it.

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Ghost never talks about his home life. He never tells anyone anything. Not even Soap knows what goes on in Ghost's house. He knows that Ghost comes to bars. That he comes to work. But between the work and boys' night, nobody knows anything about him.

That is until Ghost has a little too much to drink one night and can't drive himself home. Soap had been the DD that night, so he asks Ghost for his address. Ghost reluctantly gives it to him after a few minutes of badgering and begging. The drive to Ghost's little townhouse near the base is peaceful.

The first thing Soap notices is that the lights are on. The second thing he notices is the flower bed by the pathway to the door. As Soap helps Ghost out of the passenger seat, he finds himself staring at the flowers. "When did you become a gardener, mate?" Soap asks.

"Huh- wot?" Ghost slurs.

"The flowers, Simon," he clarifies.

"Oh, the old lady planted them," replies Ghost, stumbling over a decorative brick. The brick shatters and crushes the flowers nearby. Soap tucks himself under Ghost's arm, supporting his weight as much as possible.

"The old lady, eh? Like a... neighbor or somethin'?" Soap prods.

He shakes his head. "No, no, my girl."

"What." Soap's jaw drops. He's standing at Ghost's door, hand on the knocker, but he finds himself unable to move. "You have a bird?"

"She ain't a bird," Ghost grumbles, swaying where he stands.

Soap finally manages to get himself to knock on the door, still holding Ghost up like a crutch. Sure enough, a pretty little thing answers the door in a nightgown.

You see Simon with his mask half-on and a stranger with a mohawk supporting him. You assume the mohawk man is one of the mates he goes to the bar with on Fridays. Simon must've had a bit too much tonight because usually he drives himself home when he's sobered up.

"Um, hello," you say tentatively.

"Hi, angel," Simon slurs at you.

"Hush, you're too drunk to call me an angel," you scold. "How much did he have to drink?"

"My name's Johnny, by the way," the man says, surprisingly Scottish. "I'm not sure. Four or five pints? A couple shots? The footie game was tonight and we got a wee bit excited."

"Oh, he's gonna be so hungover and cranky tomorrow," you mutter. "Come inside, Johnny. Help me get him to the couch."

"Not the bed?" Simon whines.

"You're in trouble, mister," you reply curtly.

Johnny spins around in the living room of your house like he's visiting a museum. He clearly didn't expect a house so cottage-y from a man like Simon. Paintings of flowers hang on the walls. A throw blanket and two pillows are on each couch. A TV is mounted to the wall over a short bookcase.

"This is right beautiful, mate," Johnny chuckles.

"She decorated it!" Simon replies proudly. "It's somethin' special, innit?"

"Shut it. Still in trouble for crushing my flowers and coming home pissfaced," you snap. "Johnny, welcome to our home. Simon will still be here in the morning if you want to check on him."

"I didn't know Ghost had a girlfriend," he whispers.

"Girlfriend?! I'm his fiancée! He didn't tell you about me?" you scoff. "Simon, you are in so much trouble!"

"Fiancée," Johnny breathes. "I didn't think it possible."

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Ok so public announcement I have gone back through and spell checked some things...so...lol💀

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟏 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟑 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟒

also this is the song I was listening to while writing bty :)

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Tw: this is defiantly a slow burn, mild age gap (reader is 19-20ish Ghost is 30ish) kidnapping/abduction, psychological trauma? (if i miss anything let me know! I'm still new to this🥲 lol)

The road unspooled ahead of you like a ribbon of gray, lined with tall trees that blurred past in silent procession. Somewhere along the way, the clouds broke apart, revealing slivers of pale blue sky. You watch it all through the window, forehead resting against the glass, the engine’s low hum like a heartbeat under your feet.

You’d been driving for hours.

Ghost didn’t say much. He never did. But he hadn’t turned the radio on either, and that silence not strategic, not defensive felt different. Like something unsaid was taking up all the space between you.

You shift in your seat, stretching your sore legs. “You always this quiet, or is it just around me?”

He doesn't look over. “Noise gives people comfort. Comfort makes people sloppy.”

You let out a breath. “That supposed to be a yes?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “You're starting to sound like you not understand this little arrangement.”

You turn your head toward him, searching his expression even though most of it is hidden. “Yeah, well. You didn’t exactly come with a user manual.”

That got the faintest twitch of his eyes. Maybe a smirk. Maybe nothing. But it was something new.

Eventually, he pulls off the highway, navigating down a side road with the ease of someone who’s mapped it out a thousand times before. The sedan slows as you approach a cabin nestled in the woods old, but sturdy. Like it had been waiting for a moment just like this.

Ghost parks, kills the engine, and turns to you.

“We’re staying here a few days. Off-grid. No signals, no eyes.”

You nod slowly, stepping out of the vehicle. The air is different here still, and thick with pine and damp earth. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been wound until the quiet swallowed you.

Inside, the cabin is sparse but functional: one bedroom, a couch, and a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. There’s no electricity, only lanterns and an old cast-iron stove.

Ghost moves with efficiency checking locks, windows, sightlines. Always the soldier. You find yourself watching him again. Not with suspicion this time. With curiosity. Maybe even… concern.

“You ever take a break?” you ask, looking around the room, trying to feign indifference.

“Breaks get people killed.”

You fold your arms. “So that’s a no, then.”

He pauses at the window. “We’ve got time. I suggest you sleep.”

You don't answer. Instead, you light one of the lanterns and settle near the fireplace. Your bones ache from sitting too long, your mind too loud for sleep. Ghost must have picked up on your mood, because he makes another pass around the cabin before he eventually crosses the room and sits in the armchair opposite you.

For a while, neither of you speak.

Then, softly, you ask, “Have you ever lost someone on a job?”

The air shifts. Like you’d stepped somewhere you weren’t supposed to.

But he doesn’t look away.

“Yes.”

You wait. Not pushing. Hoping the quiet will draw it out.

He speaks again, voice low. “Three years ago. Extraction went bad.”

You swallow the weight of that, sitting between you. “I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

“No. But it matters.”

His dark eyes meet yours across the space.

And more silence. And god, was it driving you mad. You wanted him to talk about something, anything. These days and days on long stretches of solitary highway had numbed your brain. It was starting to feel like you were floating just outside your body.

You stand, brushing your hands on your jeans. “I’ll take the couch.”

Ghost stands too. “Bed’s yours. I’ll keep watch.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to do that. I mean… you haven’t slept either.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t sleep well in places like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And where do you sleep well?”

He looks at you for a long moment.

“Why aren’t you more scared?”

You blink. “What?”

“You should be. After everything. Most people would be curled up in a corner right now.”

You sit back down on the edge of the couch. “Maybe I’m too angry to be scared.”

But honestly, you knew that was just a half-truth. Anger didn’t even begin to cover it. You had been choking on the extent of your emotions since you found out your father had flipped. And even though you felt all kinds of numb now, they were still simmering under all the shock.

“That won’t last.”

You look up at him. “Then I guess I’ll just have to stay angry.”

There’s something in his gaze then. A shift. Not soft Ghost didn’t do soft but something close to recognition.

“You’re not your father,” he says.

It’s the first time either of you had said it out loud.

You swallow. “I know.”

“You don’t have to become him, either.”

You nod slowly. “I’m trying not to.”

Ghost steps away then, toward the window. But before he turns completely, he says, “Get some rest. I’ll be here.”

Not outside. Not on watch. Not guarding the perimeter.

Just: I’ll be here.

You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear that until it was already said.

Later, when you lie in the bed staring up at the dark ceiling, you can hear him pacing the floor outside the room steady and controlled. And in the spaces between his footsteps, you feel something unfamiliar unfurl in your chest.

Not fear.

Not adrenaline.

Something quieter. Warmer.

Trust.

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The dream comes quietly, like a whisper through the trees.

You are running not from something, but toward something. A door. A face. A voice just out of reach. And then the dream fractures, replaced by a low creak. Something subtle. Real.

You sit up, heart thudding. The cabin is still, shadows soft and long from the guttering lantern in the other room. You listen the kind of listening that only comes when the world feels too still. Ghost’s pacing has stopped.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching cool wooden floorboards, and pad toward the doorway.

He’s standing there, back to you, still as stone. One hand braced against the wall near the window, the other hanging loose by his side. You don’t speak at first. Just watch. His breath is even, but his shoulders are tense not the tension of alertness. Something else. Like he’s holding something back. Or in.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice low.

He doesn’t turn.

“Didn’t try.”

You cross the room slowly, careful not to break the quiet more than you have to. “You always keep watch like this?”

“This isn’t watch.” he says.

You stop a few feet behind him. "what is it then."

"Memory." he breathes.

“Memory of what?”

His silence drags out so long you think he isn’t going to answer. Then:

“My first year deployed. Nights like this, the air gets cold fast. You learn to listen for things… not see them. I had a spotter. Young. Joked too much. Died with a smile still on his face.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not really. You weren’t trained for grief like that the kind that never lets go, that sits inside a person like a second heartbeat.

So you step closer.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

Ghost nods once, but it feels more like acknowledgment than acceptance. He finally looks over his shoulder at you, and though the mask is gone you can only see the faint outline of his jaw backlit from the window, but you can still see his eyes and they look raw with something too human to name.

“You ever think about what it does to you?” you ask. “Carrying all of it?”

He considers that. “Not until I look at someone who isn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Is that what I am to you? A clean slate?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“No,” he says finally. “You’re a fractured. But not broken.”

It lands in you like a stone dropped in water.

You steep up to the window next to him. Close, but not touching. Not yet.

“I think I’m more broken than I look,” you breathe.

“Maybe....But that doesn't have to control you.”

You look over at him, catching the gleam of his eyes in the dark. “Then what does?”

His answer is simple. Honest.

“What you do next.”

You exhale. Maybe a little shakily.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I do.”

And there it is again that quiet promise. Not protection. Not orders. Something harder to name.

Partnership.

You stand there for a long while, side by side, watching the trees shift in the wind. At some point, your shoulder brushes his. A small thing. Barely contact.

He doesn’t pull away.

“Go back to bed,” he says softly.

You look at him, tired but no longer haunted. “Only if you do.”

Another long silence. Then he nods once.

Together, without a word more, you return to the bedroom. He sinks into one of the overstuffed chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

No arguments. No insistence on watch.

Just presence.

You lie back, eyes fixed on the ceiling again but it feels different now. Not hollow. Not endless.

His breathing steadies across the room, and yours begins to match.

Eventually, sleep comes not as an escape, but as a surrender. Not to fear.

But to safety.

And somewhere, in the fragile space between consciousness and dreams, you hear him say it.

Almost too quiet to be real.

“You’re not alone.”

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tag list: @your-internet-tenshi @full-cover32bitch let me know if you want to be added!🫶

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𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟏 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟑 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟒

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Tw: mild age gap (reader is 19-20ish Ghost is 30ish) kidnapping/abduction, psychological trauma? (if i miss anything let me know! I'm still new to this🥲 lol)

The van slows, and the shift in momentum drags you out of a thin, dreamless sleep. Your neck aches from the angle you’ve been slumped in. For a moment, you forget where you are until you see him.

He sits behind the wheel. His posture looks a little more relaxed than before. Well, as much as a man like him can look relaxed. He hasn’t taken off the skull mask, not even to drive. It glows faintly in the gray light bleeding through the windshield.

“Where are we?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He glances back, eyes unreadable. “Temporary stop. Southside Apartments. One of ours.”

You rub your face and look out the window as the SUV creeps into a back lot: grimy brick buildings, sagging balconies, satellite dishes hanging at odd angles. A rusted-out swing set in a patch of yellowed grass. The kind of place no one chooses to be but just ends up in.

“Cozy,” you mutter.

Ghost parks the van. “Nobody will look for a princess in places like this.”

You try not to let your irritation at his little jab show on your face. You want to bite back, but you're just too damn exhausted.

Why does it matter what he thinks, anyway?

He steps out, circles around, and opens your door with a soft click. Night air rushes in cool and damp.

You go to climb out of your seat, and you must be in worse shape than you initially thought, because your knees give out as soon as you try to stand. You would’ve fallen on your face if a large arm hadn’t shot out and caught you around the middle. Ghost holds you until you find your footing again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low, almost gentle. “Let’s go.”

You follow him across the cracked pavement, hoodie pulled low over your face. Your legs are shaky, the ground uneven, and every sound a barking dog, a slammed door sends your nerves twitching. But Ghost moves ahead like it’s just another Tuesday. One step in front, always scanning.

Apartment 2C sits at the end of a narrow hallway on the second floor. He unlocks the door with a key from his vest, pushes it open, and nods for you to go in.

You hesitate.

It smells like old cigarettes and Pine-Sol. The walls are bare. A mattress lies on the floor in one room, a wobbly table with two chairs in the kitchen. It isn’t anything special, but it’s empty.

Safe.

For now, at least.

“You’ve got two hours,” Ghost says, pulling a duffel bag from under the sink. “Shower, change, eat. Then we move.”

Too tired to argue, you just nod. “Hot water, or is that asking too much?”

His eyes twitch just a little irritation or amusement, you can't tell. “You’ll live.”

The bathroom is small, a little depressing, but it does have hot water. And that’s enough.

You stand under the stream longer than you need to, letting it rinse away the dirt, the fear, the stink of the motel. A few tears slip down before you can stop them. Your knees wobble.

You haven’t let yourself fall apart. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

When you step out, clean clothes wait on the sink. Simple: jeans, dark tee, hoodie, clean socks. You hadn’t heard him come in.

That should bother you more than it does.

You chalk it up to shock.

Dressed and towel-drying your hair with a threadbare cloth, you walk into the kitchen. On the table sits a protein bar, a water bottle, and a burner phone still in its plastic wrap.

“For you,” Ghost says, still by the window, peering through the cracked blinds. Arms crossed. Mask still on.

“You stand like a statue,” you say, voice hoarse. “Creepy, by the way.”

“Habit,” he replies.

You lean against the doorframe, folding your arms. “Do you ever take that thing off?”

“Not around people I don’t trust.”

Fair enough.

There’s a silence awkward, hovering. You break it.

“Thanks. For getting me out.”

He turns, finally. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re not out of the woods.”

You gesture toward the window. “Anyone out there?”

“No. But that can change.”

You must flinch, because his tone shifts.

“That’s yours now.” He taps the burner phone. “Use it only in an emergency. Do not contact anyone you know.”

You nod, swallowing hard as you slide it into your pocket. You’ve done this once before starting over. But doing it again? Your bones ache just thinking about it.

“Get some rest if you can,” he says. “We’ve got a long drive ahead. Next stop’s two states out.”

You study him. “How long until we get somewhere… permanent?”

He doesn't answer right away.

“You’re not going back to your old life. Might as well get used to that now,” he says quietly.

You stare at him. “And what about you? You’re just going to keep running?”

He meets your eyes. Something flickers sharp, intense. Like he sees more than you’re ready to show.

“I stop when the job’s done.”

“And when’s that, exactly?”

“When every threat is… neutralized,” he says finally.

“This isn’t just a rescue mission,” he adds. “This is a message.”

“Message?” you ask.

“They don’t get to touch what’s ours.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you turn and lie down on the mattress. The springs creak. The hoodie smells like clean laundry and gunpowder.

Fitting.

Through the cracked door, you hear him pacing. Slow. Deliberate. Always watching.

The world outside still wants you dead or worse. But for now, for just one night, you let yourself believe you might make it out.

Tomorrow: the road. Tonight: you breathe.

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You wake to a hand on your shoulder. Gentle, but firm.

“Time to go,” Ghost says, voice low, just above a whisper.

Your eyes blink open slowly. The room is dim, early morning light filtering through cheap blinds. You’d forgotten where you were for a moment, how you’d gotten here. But then you see his steady dark eyes on you. What you find there eases the panic a little as the last couple of days come rushing back.

Then you do a double take.

You sit up slowly, heart already racing again. He steps back, giving you space. A quiet courtesy you didn’t expect.

He’s not wearing a mask.

Well—not that mask. The skull, as well as the tactical vest, are gone, replaced by a plain black medical one and plain dark, normal clothing. His eyes are still deep, sharp, and unreadable but the rest of him… is different.

Softer.

More real.

“Got coffee,” he adds, nodding at the chipped mug on the counter.

You look away fast. Like you got caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

You take a sip bitter and black. Of course. Somehow, it fits.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re stepping outside. The sky is a forlorn shade of violet. The early morning air has a chill to it, and where the SUV stood last night, a 2001 Saturn sedan is in its place. You shoot a questioning look at your silent companion, but he’s already holding your door for you, so you just climb in.

God, why is it so easy for him to get you to trust him, especially after everything you’ve been through? Haven’t you learned anything?

The engine hums low beneath you. The city is still sleeping, streets slick with early fog and last night’s rain. Ghost doesn’t speak, and you don’t either.

There’s comfort in the silence. Or maybe just a fragile truce.

You watch buildings blur past, wondering how far away “safe” really is. The burner phone in your pocket feels like both a lifeline and a leash.

At some point, you doze again, lulled by the soft rhythm of tires on wet asphalt. When you wake, the sun is higher, the road wider nothing around you but endless stretches of empty highway.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks without looking over.

You check the clock. 10:03 a.m.

“Starving,” you say.

He takes the next exit without a word.

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The diner is one of those old roadside relics, all chrome and peeling vinyl, big red letters half-burned out that read: CINDY’S. The kind of place that smells like stale coffee and old fryer grease.

Ghost parks in the far corner of the lot, always thinking angles, sightlines, escape routes.

“Stay put,” he says before climbing out of the car to grab something from the trunk. He comes back around to your door. You step out and follow him to the entrance of the diner. He reaches around you to open the door and steps in a second after you do, his hand pressing into your lower back, urging you toward the booth in the back. You follow him there. He sits after you, his back to the wall.

Of course.

His eyes scan the room, always lingering on the exit.

The waitress doesn’t look twice at either of you. She drops off menus and black coffee, then wanders off again. You order waffles, and he gets eggs and bacon.

“Nice to be treated like a person again,” you say, fiddling with the napkin.

He doesn’t reply. But his eyes linger a second too long.

You lean back. “So what’s the next fake name I memorize?”

“Isabel Russo,” he says.

You wrinkle your nose. “Sounds like someone who writes poetry.”

“It’s not meant to suit you. It’s meant to keep you alive.”

Your fingers tighten on your glass.

There’s a tension sitting between you not dangerous, but something almost… awkward.

You glance out the window. A family piles out of a minivan. Kids laughing. The mom in oversized sunglasses. Ordinary. Untouchable.

“What about you?” you ask quietly. “Your real name?”

He doesn’t say anything doesn’t even blink. Just watches you across the table, eyes unreadable behind the mask. And just when you think he isn’t going to answer, he does.

“You wouldn’t sleep better knowing it.”

“I’m not looking for comfort. Just trying to figure out the man I’m trusting with my life.”

Something flickers in his eyes. He leans forward slightly.

“You don’t need to know me. You just need to do what you're told.”

The words hang between you.

For a second, you feel tears burn behind your eyes. He’s right you know that but it does little to stop the burn of embarrassment in your chest.

Your life left little room for genuine human connection, so you were used to functioning without it. It’s just… right now, you find yourself craving the comfort of it more than usual.

He sits back in the booth, arms crossing over his chest.

The food comes. You eat in silence, and it feels more hollow now.

When the check comes, Ghost throws down a crumpled twenty and a few bills more. You stand, slipping your hands into your hoodie pockets, and follow him out into the daylight.

You’re halfway to the car when he speaks again.

“Sorry.”

You blink. “About what?”

He opens the passenger door for you. “About being... severe. And about what's happening to you.”

You’re shocked into silence for a few moments before you manage a response.

“I forgive you.” Then, a little quieter, “Thank you.”

“For what?” he says as he looks down at you. The weight of his full attention is too much, so you look away quickly.

“For your apology.”

“Oh... well... you’re welcome, then.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just climb in.

As the sedan rolls back onto the highway, you glance over at him. But he’s focused on the road.

You want so badly to know what he thinks of you. Does he see you as cargo something to be transported from one point to another? Or worse, a burden just a rich girl caught up in a man’s game?

But for the first time since the motel, since the panic and fear...

You start to feel like maybe you’re not alone in this.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

ahhh so this is part2! hope you guy like where this is going!🫶🩷

tag list: @floweronacloud @full-cover32bitch let me know if you want to be added!

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟏 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟐 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟑 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟒

Summary: you are the daughter of a former criminal turned government informant and you find yourself held hostage as leverage against your father’s betrayal. Rescued by a silent, masked operative you know only as Ghost (for now teehee), you are thrust into a relentless cross-country flight through seedy motels, safe houses, and roadside diners, hiding from a network of enemies determined to have you back or worse. As the danger deepens, so does the uneasy bond between you and your stoic protector.

Tw: mild age gap (reader is 19-20ish Ghost is 30ish) kidnapping/abduction, violence/gun violence, blood/injury (brief but present), psychological trauma? (if i miss anything let me know! I'm still new to this🥲 lol)

The rain hammered the windshield, but it couldn’t drown out the ringing in your ears or the memory on a loop: the front door splintering, boots slamming against tile, masked men rushing in. Rough hands grabbing you before you could scream, dragging you backward into what felt like a box truck. The sting of a needle in your neck was the last thing you felt before the black took over.

Now, you’re awake.

Your head throbs. Your wrists are bound zip ties digging into your skin like they hold a grudge. The wallpaper peels in long strips, curling like old scabs, stained with mold and time. The air is thick sour with mildew, sweat, and stale beer. And the dingy carpet beneath you smells like it died years ago.

Panic builds in your chest.

How long have you been unconscious? How long have you been here? Where is here, even?

And God—your head. It hurts so badly you just want to curl up and cry.

But you don’t.

Your father raised you better than that. Just... not for this.

Fear twists in your gut, cold and sharp as broken glass. You know what this means.

They have you. They want him.

Adrian Vale your father. The ghost in the machine. Once the invisible hand behind one of the world’s largest illegal weapons networks, high-rise assassinations, and million-dollar laundering rings. The shadow behind shadows.

Then one day, he flipped.

You still don’t know why. The government had offered him amnesty for intel, and he took it. You didn’t even know he was considering it. He never explained he never explained anything, really. You only knew pieces of the truth from your own digging.

“New life,” he had said. “For both of us.”

But the underworld doesn’t forget. And it never forgives.

Now you’re leverage. Collateral. A warning.

It’s been, what four weeks? Since he turned state’s witness. Since he gave up names, routes, codes. Since he traded his empire for a new name and a quiet, government-issued life. And you got a new life too.

Or so you thought.

You’ve been telling yourself this isn't his fault. That he did it to protect you. That he'd come for you or send someone who would. It’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

He did.

It started with three short knocks.

Then silence.

The twitchy guy guarding the door leaned in to check the peephole. The one with the neck tattoo and dead eyes.

Boom.

The door exploded inward, slamming the man into the dresser with a wet crack making you flinch. Smoke flooded the room. Shouting. And then—

Him.

Black tactical gear gloves gleamed, smeared with blood or oil, maybe both. And over his face: a skull mask, stark and expressionless. The kind you'd only seen in grainy black-and-white surveillance stills.

He moved like smoke.

no wasted motion. No hesitation.

The second guard turned.

Too late.

And then he was in front of you.

One shot to the thigh. Another clean through the skull. He dropped like a ragdoll.

The third tried to run. He hardly took three steps.

And then he was in front of you.

Crouched low. Silent. Calculating.

He pulled a photo from a pouch, held it up close to your face. His eyes flicked from it to you, back and forth, scanning. Confirming.

You looked away.

He touched a finger to his earpiece. “I’ve located her. We’re heading to the van.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. For all you knew, this man wasn’t here to rescue you just to move you somewhere worse. Your father had enemies everywhere.

He drew a knife the steel gleamed in motel gloom.

You tensed.

but he only sliced the zip ties. Clean and precise.

You rubbed your raw wrists. “who are you?”

He scanned the room again.

“Call me Ghost,” he said, clipped and unreadable. “Your father’s new friends in the government sent me. there's no time questions. We need to move. before more people show.”

“More?” Your voice cracked.

The world spun, your balance still a half-step behind reality.

He paused, eyes narrowing behind the mask. “This was a message. They know your father flipped. They won’t stop.”

He tossed you a hoodie and a cap black, both of them. You could smell the faint, metallic tang of gun powder and blood in the air.

You pulled them on, trying not to think about the nausea building in you stomach.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“That’s my problem,” he replied. “All you need to do is follow orders.”

The rain needled your face as you stepped into the alley behind the motel. A black SUV idled at the curb, sleek and silent. No plates. No markings.

He opened the passenger door for you, eyes sweeping the rooftops. “In. Now.”

You climbed in just before he slammed the door shut behind you. The vehicle peeled away from the curb, low and fast, like a predator vanishing into the night.

You watched the city blur past, lights bleeding across wet glass like ghosts. You felt yourself slipping away with them.

“Where are we going?” you asked again, voice smaller than before.

Ghost pulled a tablet from his vest, scrolling through encrypted overlays and maps that didn’t look like they belonged to this country or this decade.

“Safehouse,” he said. “Eventually. But we can’t go direct. They’ve got eyes on everything—PD, DEA, DHS. Possibly more.”

You frowned. “So.... what’s the plan?”

He looked at you longer this time. Assessing.

“Right now?” he said. “We get distance. and then you need to disappear.”

You nodded slowly, the gravity of it sinking in.

“And what do I tell people?”

He eyes bore into you. “You tell them nothing. You contact anyone, you kill them.”

It hit you hard even though the list of people you loved wasn’t long.

Your father’s world never left room for that.

You leaned back in the seat. the SUV humming beneath you like a pulse. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only the hollow ache of exhaustion, and the cold.

City lights streamed across your face.

You didn’t know where this road led. Didn’t know who you’d be at the end of it.

But you knew one thing:

You were a target.

And the man beside you?

He was probably the only reason you were still breathing.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒕👀🤭

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒈𝒐 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌⋆❆˚｡₊⊹❅⋆

The streets shimmered beneath your boots, wet with melted snow and aglow with golden lights strung across the market like a canopy of stars. The scent of cinnamon, pine, and roasted chestnuts clung to the air, thick and inviting. It was the kind of cold that nipped at your cheeks but didn’t bite too hard just enough to make the warmth of Simon’s hand in yours feel a little sweater.

He walked beside you, quiet as always, but… relaxed. Not Ghost. Just Simon. His balaclava was tugged down around his neck for once, exposing the curve of a content smile.

“You warm enough?” he asked, glancing down at you. His accent curled around the words like smoke.

You wiggled your gloved fingers in his as you gave him a big smile. “uh-huh"

He huffed a laugh, low and amused.

Stalls lined the cobbled street, each one glowing with fairy lights and crowned with garlands. Soaps, wooden toys, handmade scarves, and frosted pastries beckoned from every direction. You stopped at one that sold candles, their soft scents curling through the crisp night air amber, fir, and something smoky that reminded you of his cologne.

Simon picked one up and handed it to you. “This one smells like your flat after I’ve been over.”

You smirked. “You mean like takeout and trouble?”

“Exactly,” he said, and leaned in just enough to nudge your shoulder with his. The warmth of it lingered.

You wandered through the rest of the market , slow, comfortable, not in a hurry to be anywhere. A local band played under a tented pavilion, and you caught Simon tapping his fingers against yours to the beat, subtle but there. You watched him as he watched the lights, the people, the little bits of life that rarely made it into his world.

“Glad we did this,” he said after a while, voice quieter now.

“Me too.”

And when he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of knitted mittens navy blue with little skulls stitched into the cuffs you stared at them for a beat, speechless.

“Figured they’d suit you,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing.

You took them with a grin. “You went mitten shopping for me?”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered, already walking ahead. “I just nabbed them a few shops back.”

But you saw it: the flush at the tops of his ears. The quiet pride in his step. The way he held your hand just a bit tighter.

You eventually found a small seating area tucked between two vendor stalls, where a few wooden benches circled a low firepit. The flames cracked and popped gently, throwing flickers of orange light onto Simon’s face as he sat down beside you, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in hand.

“I’m impressed,” you said, taking one. “You didn’t spill any. it must be all that elite military training.”

He gave you a deadpan stare over the rim of his cup. “Balance. Precision. Beverage discipline.”

You laughed and leaned into him, shoulder pressed to his, as the wind picked up and carried the scent of firewood and sugar through the air. A group of kids ran by in winter hats too big for their heads, leaving a trail of laughter behind them.

Simon watched them for a while, silent again, not distant just thoughtful.

“You’re quiet,” you said gently.

He took a long sip before answering. “Not used to this.”

You tilted your head. “Markets? Firepits? or....?”

He didn’t respond right away. But eventually, he nodded toward the flames. “This. All of it. Feels like a different life. A good one. But not mine.”

Your heart tugged at the edge of that honesty. It was rare, hearing him say things like that out loud. Rare, too, to be allowed into those parts of him that didn’t wear a mask.

"Maybe it’s not about whose life it is," you said, your voice gentle. "Maybe it’s just about this moment we get to share. Just tonight, just us."

Simon looked at you, and something in his expression shifted. The hard lines softened. His eyes, dark and thoughtful, held a kind of reverence like he was memorizing the way your cheeks were rosy from the cold, or how the firelight made you glow.

“You always say stuff like that?” he murmured. “Or am I special?”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, pulled one of your newly gifted mittens into his hand, and held it like it was something delicate. Like you were something he didn’t want to break.

“I think,” he said, almost a whisper, “I’m lucky.”

The silence after wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. A mutual understanding that fell into the cold night air like a second snow.

You sat there until your cups were empty and your hands were warm for reasons that had little to do with the fire. Somewhere nearby, someone started singing a gentle carol in a voice so soft it felt like snowfall.

Simon leaned back and exhaled slowly, looking up at the stars.

“Next time,” he said, “we come earlier. So we’ve got more time.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder sighing happily. “Deal.”

The walk back through downtown was quieter now. The market was winding down, vendors packing up, twinkling lights dimming to a softer glow. Snow began to fall light, drifting, just enough to dust the cobblestones in silver.

Simon had his hand in yours again, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles through the thick knit of your new mittens. Every so often, he glanced at you. And every time, it felt like he was about to say something but then thought better of it.

Until you reached the quiet stretch just a few blocks from your place.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low, “You’ve been shivering since we left that fire.”

You smirked. “Maybe just a little. The wind’s biting.”

“Well,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up into the faintest smirk, “maybe it's time I take you home. Warm you up properly.”

You stopped walking. Looked up at him with a knowing look in your eyes. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

His smirk grew. 

“With my ‘elite military’ training of course I'm very prepared for situations like this“  

You leaned in close with a barely contained grin. “Well if you say so.”

His eyes darkened just a flicker and he gently tugged your hand, leading the rest of the way with purpose now. You could feel the shift in him: restrained, steady, but there was heat there. The kind that built slow and deliberate, waiting to be invited in.

By the time you reached your door, your pulse was loud in your ears, and his nearness was a kind of gravity you couldn’t ignore. You unlocked it with shaking hands that was definitely not from the cold.

Once inside, you peeled off layers. Coats. Scarves. Boots kicked carelessly aside. The air was warmer, but it wasn’t enough not with the way he was watching you, leaning against the door as it clicked shut behind him.

“You look like you’re planning something.” you teased, stepping out of your boots. 

“I am,” he said, already closing the space between you. 

He reached for your face with both hands warm, calloused, careful and kissed you like it had been on his mind all night. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… sure.

When you broke apart, breathless and pressed against the wall, he rested his forehead against yours and murmured:

“There. A little better?”

You laughed softly. “Getting there.”

his mouth found yours again deeper this time, more insistent. His hands slid down, slow but firm, tracing the line of your waist. The wall at your back was cool, but his body made up for it, pressing into you enough to make your breath catch. You arched into him, fingers curling in the thick fabric of his sweater, feeling the solid heat of him beneath. Simon exhaled against your lips, a low sound that you felt in your chest more than heard in your ears. The kind of sound that made promises.

You tugged at his sweater, fingers fumbling in your haste. He laughed softly against your mouth, that deep, rough sound that made your stomach tighten.

“Easy,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to help shrug it off. “We’ve got time.”

based on how your body was already thrumming, the heat in your core building with every touch you weren’t so sure. 

He traced the hem of your sweater with a featherlight touch, then slipped his fingers beneath just a brush at first, enough to raise goosebumps along your ribs. Then higher. His hands were firm, reverent, as he pulled it over your head and tossed it aside. Your skit following soon after.

“You're still cold,” he said quietly, eyes dipping to drink in the site of your. 

You didn't get a chance to respond before his mouth found the curve of your shoulder, his teeth grazing over your flesh making you shiver. You clutched at his shirt, trying to pull him closer, needing more friction, more pressure, more him.

He seemed to sense it, always one step ahead of you. With a practiced ease, he lifted you up and carried you the short distance to the couch, where he settled you into the cushions. He pulled his shirt over his head before his weight followed, pressing you down in all the right places, his delicious warmth enveloping you, his mouth never far from your skin.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl softly against your skin. The sound vibrated through you, awakening something deep and needy. He kissed down your throat, unhurried and thorough, like he was savoring every inch. You arched into him instinctively, offering more.

“How about now?” he murmured against your pulse, nipping there before soothing the bite with his tongue.

You barely managed a breathy, “not anymore.”

⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ

also yes is did cut this short im literally so scared to write/post a smut seen lol 🥲

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝒎𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒂𝒍𝒍۶ৎ

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒚𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆.

You bolt upright in bed, the plush bedding no longer as comforting as it was just moments ago. The late spring air carries a gentle warmth, and you'd opened the windows earlier to let it in. Now, some mix of the night breeze whispering through the curtains and the nervous energy coiled in your belly sends a shiver skimming down your spine as you pad across the floor.

Your heart beats faster with every step down the hallway.

You find Simon in the dining room, sitting in a chair, facing away from you. The house is mostly dark, lit only by the milky wash of moonlight spilling in through the windows. Still, you can make out his form elbows on his knees, head bowed, shoulders pulled so tight you can practically taste the storm simmering inside him.

He straightens slightly when he senses you behind him.

The moment his dark eyes meet yours, they soften. Relief crashes through you so fast it feels like you’re breathing for the first time in days. His gaze follows you with such quiet intensity, with so much longing, that your hands tremble a bit as you step between his legs. You cup his face in both hands, your heart pounding hard against your ribs as his calloused palms settle gently on your hips.

"Hello," he murmurs.

The deep rasp of his voice vibrates through your chest and it's almost more than you can bear.

Your throat tightens; you feel tears sting behind your eyes.

How many nights had you woken up crying from dreams that felt too real?

How many times had you turned around, swearing you’d heard his voice only to find empty air?

For a moment, all you can do is look at him. Then, you throw your arms around his neck and press your lips to his. One of his hands slides up your back, anchoring you to him, pulling you into his warmth.

God, he tastes like safety. Like home. Like him.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper, trailing soft kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, his brow. His eyes flutter shut.

“I miss you too,” he breathes, and pulls you onto his lap, guiding your legs around him so you straddle his hips. His arms wrap around your waist, locking you in place like he’s afraid to let go.

“Missed that too,” he says with a rare smile, eyes half-lidded as you run your nails through his hair.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊

hey! so this is my first post/fic/attempt at writing in general lol so if it's bad I'm sorry! 😭🩷

p.s if i miss any tags please let me know! like i said I'm so new at this xx