"That's not true."
"It is." He looked back at her. "I'm thirty-two years old and the only thing I've ever been good at is following orders and shooting straight." He paused, his hand finding hers. "Until recently, anyway."
"What changed recently?"
He looked at her, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "You."
Her face warmed. "Logan..."
"I'm serious." His hand came up to cup her face, fingers threading through her hair. "You make me want to be good at other things. Normal things. Like making breakfast and watching TV on the couch and..." He paused, swallowing. "Like having someone to come home to. Like building a life that's more than just the next mission."
Rachel's throat went tight. "I want that too."
He leaned in and kissed her. Slow and deep and full of all the unspoken things building between them.
When he pulled back, Rachel settled against his chest again. They sat quietly for a while, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm. She could hear his heartbeat beneath her ear, steady and strong.
"There is one other thing," Ghost said quietly.
"What?"
"The piano."
Rachel lifted her head. "The piano?"
"Yeah. The one in the living room." He paused, and she could feel the tension in his body. "My mom taught me when I was a kid. Before she died."
Rachel sat up fully, turning to face him. "You play?"
"Used to. Not much anymore, but..." He shrugged, but she could see how much this meant to him. "It's how I center myself. When shit gets too loud in my head, I play. It's the one thing that's just mine. Separate from being a SEAL. Separate from all the rest of it."
Rachel's chest tightened. She reached for his hand. "Will you play something for me?"
He looked at her for a long moment, something vulnerable and uncertain in his eyes, then nodded.
They stood and moved to the piano. Ghost sat down on the bench, and Rachel settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched, that she could feel the warmth of him.
He lifted the fallboard, exposing the keys. His hands hovered over them for a moment, and she saw him take a deep breath, then his fingers touched the keys, gentle and reverent, like greeting an old friend.
And then he started to play.
The music filled the room, haunting and beautiful and achingly sad. A classical piece Rachel didn't recognize, but it moved through her like something physical. She watched his hands move across the keys, sure and practiced despite how long it had been. This was a part of him she'd never seen before. Vulnerable. Soft. Completely human.
When he finished, the last note hung in the air between them, fading slowly into silence.
"That was beautiful," Rachel whispered, afraid to break the spell.
He looked at her, and there was something raw in his expression. Something unguarded. "My mom used to play it. Chopin. Nocturne in E-flat major."
"She taught you that?"
"Yeah. It was her favorite." His voice was quiet, rough around the edges.
Rachel's hand found his, threading their fingers together. "I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." He looked down at their joined hands. "But yeah. That's what makes me happy. Playing. Remembering her. Knowing she'd be proud that I kept it up, even if it's just for myself now."
Rachel leaned her head against his shoulder, and they sat there in the quiet. The weight of shared vulnerability hung between them, intimate and precious.
