Goust🌊

Ghost always kept his distance.
Not out of fear, but out of habit. It's safer that way. It's easier not to feel.

You enter the room, and he freezes. His body remains motionless, only his gaze gives him away. Through the mask, through the cold bearing—he looks. Intently. Hungrily. With that quiet greed that is impossible to hide completely.

“You’re late,” he says in an even tone, as if it’s just a remark.

You take off your gear without looking at him, but you feel the air between you thicken. He watches your every movement, as if memorizing it. The way you breathe. The tired slump of your shoulders.

You look up and catch his gaze.

Second.
He immediately turns away.

“What?” you ask.

• Nothing.

As always.

Ghost won't admit it. Never. For him, love is a weakness, a chink in his armor. He knows how to suppress pain, rage, fear. And he's pushed this feeling down there too—deep, where it doesn't hurt unless you look.

But he looks.

When you smile - too long.
When someone stands closer to you than necessary - too attentive.
When you pass by - with tension in every muscle.

He won't touch.
Not today.

You leave, and he remains standing, allowing himself to look after you without a mask of indifference.

The love in his eyes is dark, reserved, dangerous.
The one that will never become words.
She who lives only in a look full of quiet, forbidden hunger