Page 18 of Ghost's Obsession

“Morning,” he says, eyeing the plans. “You beat me to it.”

“Didn’t sleep much,” I say, keeping my voice light.

He pauses. That’s it. Just a half-second hesitation before he nods and walks over, scanning the table. But I feel it. The way his eyes sweep over me before he even looks at the sketches.

He knows something’s off. I keep talking.

“I was thinking we could start framing out the kitchenette today. If we use the reclaimed planks from the old barn pile, we can save a couple hundred on materials. I’ll treat and seal them myself.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me like I’m one of the measurements he hasn’t figured out yet.

Finally, he says, “Sounds good.”

But his voice is off. Slower. Softer.

I push forward, pointing at the floor plan. “I marked the outlet spacing over here. I figured we can bring the wiring across this beam.”

“Did you eat yet?”

The question cuts through my momentum. I look up, and he’s staring at me, arms crossed, brow low.

“Not hungry,” I say, turning back to the plans.

“You’ve said that for several days in a row.”

I shrug. “Guess I’m still not.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t argue. Just walks over to the mini fridge in the corner, pulls out two waters, and hands one to me.

I take it. Mostly because not taking it would say more.

The silence stretches as we start marking wall studs for the partition. He moves beside me, holding the level steady while I pencil in lines. We work well together, always have. But today, the rhythm’s off. I fumble the tape measure. Drop my pencil. My hands shake when I try to lift the saw blade into position.

He notices everything. But he doesn’t say anything. And that’s worse than anything he could say. It’s late by the time we call it.

The sky’s gone dusky gold, and my whole body aches from fighting through the day. I’ve made it twelve hours without breaking down. That should feel like something. But it doesn’t.

Ghost wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it onto the bench. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, leaning against the worktable, watching me gather up tools like I haven’t been stumbling through this entire day like a sleepwalker.

I keep my eyes on the wrench I’m wrapping in a rag. Don’t look up. Don’t crack.

“Are you okay?” His voice is soft. Low enough that it could almost be casual.

But it isn’t. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. I can feel it in the air between us growing thick with what I’m not saying.

“You’ve been off for the past few days,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You’re pale. Shaky. Not eating. And before you say it, no, it’s not just stress. You work under pressure better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I freeze. My mouth opens. Then closes.

There’s a long, breathless pause where I almost say it.

I picture the look he’d give me. I picture him pulling back. Telling me I shouldn’t be doing physical work. Telling me I shouldn’t stay here. Telling me I’m too much liability. Too much of a risk.

And then I’d be homeless, lose everything I’ve started to build.

I swallow hard. “It’s… personal stuff. But I’m dealing with it.”

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