Page 195 of BounBound By Scars

Then, quieter this time, “Can you… not call me that?”

I blinked. My voice came out flat. “Do you know I’ve never called you Zar?”

Zarek frowned, like he was mentally scrolling through six and a half years of memory and couldn’t find a single time. Because there wasn’t one.

I gave him a small, dry smile.

“And I only ever called you Ghost for the first year of being in Squad Six.”

His face changed then—just slightly. A softening. Maybe realization settling in.

I could’ve stopped. Maybe I should have.

But I didn’t.

“I felt like an asset,” I said. “Like Cipher mattered more than Kabir ever could.”

He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand—don’t interrupt.

“You let Logan in. You let Dylan in. But me?” I gave a hollow laugh. “I was just the tech guy. The tool. A walking firewall with a mouth you didn’t quite know what to do with.”

Zarek exhaled sharply. “That’s not how I saw you.”

“No?” I snapped, heat rising in my voice now. “Because every time I opened up, every time I tried to be something beyond my title, you shut the door.”

“Kabir—”

“No,” I said. “Let mesay it. You want honesty, right?”

He nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “Yeah. I do.”

I looked down at my hands. Fingers curled into my palms.

“I used to rehearse sentences,” I said. “You know that? For the first two years, before I came to you. Irehearsedhow to ask for backup, for clarity, forfucking respect—because I never knew how much was too much with you.”

I felt his breath hitch beside me. Good.

“And after Maxton died,” I continued, softer now, “when I was lying in that hospital bed, patching myself together—physically, mentally—I kept waiting for your face.”

He looked at me then. Fully.

“Iwaited,” I said. “One day. Two. A week. I told myself you were busy. Grieving. Prepping for ops. But deep down, Iknew. You didn’t want to see me.”

He looked gutted.

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his voice tight, choked. “I—”

“I’m not Logan,” I cut in. “I’m not Dylan.”

Zarek’s gaze dropped.

“You made me second-guess everything,” I whispered. “The way I spoke. The way I stood. Whether I was too soft or not useful enough. So, I tried to toughen up. I tried to copyLogan’ssarcasm.Dylan’srestraint. I wanted to earn your trust. Your friendship. Something. But I’m not them.”

My voice cracked. I hated that it cracked.

“I talk,” I said. “I ask. I push. I feel everything too loud and too bright.”

He didn’t deny it.

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