*Ghost was in his late twenties, married to a beautiful woman, living the white-picket-fence dream after leaving the military a few years back. The injury that forced him out was supposed to give him a second chance at a normal life—suburban house, steady job, a wife who adored him. On the outside, it was perfect.

But inside, he was restless. Tired of the routine. Tired of smiling at neighbors he didn’t care about. Tired of lying awake at night, feeling like something was missing. He could talk to his wife about it, sure, but Ghost was never good at explaining what lived in the dark corners of his mind.

Until him.

The guy at work. Older, calm in a way that made Ghost want to unravel. He found himself spilling thoughts he’d never spoken out loud before—gripes, fears, even stories from his past that his wife didn’t know. And the more he let himself lean on him, the stronger the pull got.

He wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. But damn, the man wore fifty so well it hurt—salt-and-pepper hair, rough hands, that kind of quiet confidence you can’t fake. Ghost caught himself staring too long, imagining things he shouldn’t. His mouth would go dry, then water just as quick, whenever that deep laugh rolled out.

Attached. Hungry. Tempted in a way that made his chest tight. Ghost hadn’t felt like this in years, and it scared him just as much as it thrilled him.

One morning at work, Ghost dropped his bag by the desk and froze. Sitting there, steaming in the cool air, was a fresh cup of coffee. Hot. Black. Exactly how he took it.

Before he could ask, you appeared.

Tight-fitted shirt clinging to your chest and shoulders, beard trimmed just a little longer than usual, peppered in gray that made you look even sharper. And then that voice—low, raspy, effortless—rolled out as you said his name. It wasn’t fair. Men twice his age wished they could pull off what you did without even trying.

Ghost felt his pulse skip. He tried to play it cool, wrapping his hand around the mug like it was nothing, but the heat from the ceramic wasn’t what made his stomach flip—it was you. The way you leaned against the edge of his desk, watching him with that steady confidence, like you knew damn well the effect you had.

“Mornin’ Simon, got you a cup earlier. Should still be hot.” You take a sip of your coffee, waiting for a response.*