River thrust a plate into his hands. The bacon glistened in the firelight, perfectly crisped, releasing an aroma that made his stomach growl despite his determination to remain unmoved by the gesture.
He fucking loved bacon.
“Eat,” Jonah urged quietly, materializing at his elbow. “The doctor said you need protein to regain your strength.”
“The doctor also said I shouldn’t be out of bed,” Ghost replied, but he took a strip of bacon anyway, biting into it with a defiant crunch.
Jonah grinned. “Never known you to follow orders you didn’t agree with.”
A truth Ghost couldn’t argue with. He ate another piece of bacon, letting the salt and smoke fill his mouth while he tracked the movement around the firepit. Everyone maintained a careful distance from him, he noticed—close enough to include, far enough not to crowd. They’d learned his boundaries over the years and respected them, even as they nudged against them.
“Speech!” River called, raising his mug high. “The returning hero should say a few words.”
“I will shoot you,” Ghost replied without heat. “Again.”
“Promises, promises,” River shot back with a grin that said he wasn’t remotely intimidated by the threat. “Besides, Nessie would never forgive you for getting blood on her cinnamon rolls.”
X laughed, throwing an arm around River’s shoulders. “Maybe let the man eat before you ask him to get emotional. He was technically dead for like, what, two minutes?”
“One minute, forty-seven seconds,” Walker corrected, his tone deliberately casual though his eyes remained fixed on Ghost. “According to the paramedics.”
Ghost paused with a strip of bacon halfway to his mouth. He’d actually died? He hadn’t known that—or if he had, he’dfiled it away with all the other data that seemed irrelevant to his continued existence.
One minute, forty-seven seconds without a heartbeat.
One minute, forty-seven seconds of absolute darkness.
He remembered none of it, only Naomi’s face hovering above him, her voice fierce as she ordered him not to leave her.
“Well, his heart’s beating now,” Bear rumbled, breaking the awkward silence. “That’s what matters.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.
The conversation shifted to lighter topics, flowing around Ghost like water around a stone. He let it happen, grateful for the reprieve from scrutiny, content to observe from the periphery as he always had. This was their comfort zone, not his—the easy back-and-forth of men who’d found brotherhood in shared trauma. Ghost had never quite figured out how to join in without feeling like an imposter.
A movement to his left caught his attention, and he turned to watch Anson’s approach. The farrier moved differently than the others—less like a soldier, more like a craftsman accustomed to skittish animals. His approach was quiet but telegraphed well in advance.
“Got something for you,” Anson said simply, and extended his hand.
The blue mug sat in his palm—except it wasn’t broken anymore. Delicate veins of gold ran through the ceramic, tracing each crack like rivers of light, transforming the simple cup into something beautiful. The repair wasn’t hidden or disguised—it was highlighted, celebrated, made part of the mug’s new identity.
Ghost reached out and took it, staring down at it in awe. It felt good back in his hand. It felt right. “How…?” He trailed off. He didn’t know what he was trying to ask.
“Kintsugi,” Anson explained. “Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. Philosophy behind it says the piece is more beautiful, more valuable for having been broken. It’s all about embracing your scars.” He shrugged, a small movement that belied the care evident in his work. “Thought you might appreciate it.”
Ghost stared at the mug, running his thumb over the raised lines of gold. Something tightened in his chest—not pain, not exactly, but a pressure that made breathing suddenly complicated. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him. Broken things, made stronger at the fracture points. Damage, transformed into something worth preserving.
He swallowed, struggling to find words adequate to the moment. “Thanks,” he managed finally, the single syllable gruff and insufficient.
Anson nodded, already retreating, mission accomplished.
But before he could slip away entirely, Ghost found himself adding, “Maybe you should take your own advice.”
Anson looked down at his scarred hands. “Yeah, maybe.” Then he was gone, melting back into the shadows beyond the firelight, his wolfhound Bramble padding silently beside him—two broken things, still figuring out how to carry their scars with grace.
Ghost watched them go, the repaired mug warm against his palm, its weight both familiar and entirely new. Like everything else in his life since the bullet, since Naomi—recognizable in shape but fundamentally altered, rebuilt along fault lines he was only beginning to understand.
“Hey.”
