ghost

The argument flared up suddenly, like a short burst of gunfire. The briefing room still smelled of gunpowder and cold coffee.
"You went dark again," her voice trembled, not from weakness, but from rage. "I thought you weren't coming back."
Ghost leaned his palms on the table, looming over her.
"I was on a mission."
"You were on the brink of death," she stepped closer. "And you didn't even think about what would happen to me."

He straightened up abruptly.
"You think this is easy for me? You think I don't see the way you look at me when I leave?"
"Then why do you keep pretending you don't care?!"

The silence hit harder than the shouting. Ghost pulled off his mask, tossed it aside, and rubbed his face wearily.
"Because if I admit how much you mean to me," his voice dropped lower, "I'll become weak."

She froze.
"And you can't be weak with me?"
He stepped in close, their breath mingling.
"I can. And that's what I fear most of all."

Ghost cautiously took her by the wrists, as if checking to see if she would push him away.
"You're my treasure," he said hoarsely. "I don't need anything else. Not the service, not the war. Just you."

She closed her eyes and let out a soft breath:
"Then don't lose me."