Page 12 of All Ghosts Aren’t Dead (The Forgotten #1)

SAMUEL

M y office smelled of old wood and bitter silence.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, heavy with volumes I rarely touched but refused to part with. Their weight steadied the room, even if the knowledge had long since been internalized or discarded. Everything was exactly the way I needed it to be—measured and precise.

Velvet curtains were drawn tight, and the light from the lamp on my desk cast long shadows across the floor .

The desk in front of me was carved of oak, broad enough to separate myself from whoever sat across it. No one lingered here unless I wanted them to—which was fucking never.

Leather armchairs remained mostly untouched—their backs rigid and their seats too deep to settle into.

It wasn’t much of an office. Amir called it a containment field.

Too much order and not enough warmth or some shit.

I liked order. Demanded it, actually.

Order kept everything from falling apart, and fuck if this place wasn’t one bad day away from blowing to shit.

There was a file open on my desk—something about rerouting supply chains through Montreal—but the words hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. A glass of water sat beside it, sweating slowly into a ring I’d wipe away later.

Focus was a state I typically thrived in. There was enough work in my office to occupy three lifetimes if I wanted. Logistics, personnel, and the constant maintenance of a program stitched together by broken boys and blood money.

The silence wasn’t holding tonight, not the way it usually did.

My focus had all but funneled into one boy— Blue.

My little ghost.

Always there, even when he wasn’t.

I hadn’t meant to check on him today. Not during drills. The gym belonged to Hiro, but something pulled me there anyway.

A quiet instinct.

A disruption in the atmosphere that didn’t register until my feet were already moving.

Blue stood still. Too still.

I’d seen killers—blank stares, empty nerves, boys who never flinched because they stopped expecting mercy, but this wasn’t that.

This was something older. A boy who had never been taught the difference between obedience and survival. A boy who still held his breath like God might come back and finish what He started.

Blue didn’t even look afraid—he looked conditioned , and fuck, it crawled under my skin in a way I hadn’t prepared for.

I’d been trying to work since dinner. I told myself I needed to handle the updates from Ben, the routing notes, and the new reports from Midnight.

Didn’t matter.

My mind traced him anyway—how he moved, how he held himself after. How he stood too close to Bay and too far from Rune. The way he looked at the mirrors, not to see himself, but to avoid his own reflection.

He haunted me in ways the dead never had. Not because he was searching for comfort, but because he didn’t know what it felt like. And fuck if I didn’t want to be the one to show him.

Tap. Tap.

A barely-there sound cut through the stillness, knuckles meeting wood. Hesitation lingered in the pause, wrestling with intent but too tender to demand entry.

My chair gave a soft groan as I stood, the old oak legs dragging against the rug. I crossed the room in a few steady steps, the thud of my boots muted by the soft carpet.

My hand curled around the knob. The lock gave with a click, and the door eased open on its hinges with a low sigh.

Blue.

He stood barefoot in the hallway, toes curled into the rug and shoulders tucked in like he was trying to make himself smaller.

Lungs collapsing, I made a noise as I lurched toward him, as if every fiber of my being demanded to be closer, like it couldn’t fucking fathom being in the same room but not close enough to touch.

As if I was fucking capable.

Light from behind him cast a faint halo around his hair, softening the snowy strands. His T-shirt hung off one shoulder, clinging to smooth, pale skin.

His pulse fluttered at his throat, and the fine muscles along his jaw quivered with restraint. He looked up at me, eyes glassy and wide, the shimmer of tears hovering just above his lashes, suspended but not fallen.

“Sweetheart.”

“You said to find you,” he whispered, choking a little. “If I needed you. I… I need you, or maybe I just w—want you. ”

The words pierced deeper than they should have, sliding beneath my ribs with a precision that left no room to brace.

Want .

He clutched those four letters like a sin he didn’t know how to confess.

I wanted him too, fuck , I wanted him in ways I had no business wanting anyone.

My voice broke. “Come here, baby.”

Slow, uncertain steps crossed over the threshold, his watery gaze flicking up, then away, like he was afraid I might vanish if he stared too long. He didn’t stop moving until he was close enough for me to see the tremble at the corners of his mouth.

He sniffled once, then dragged a shaky knuckle beneath his eye, brushing it away with a quiet, practiced motion.

“I had a nightmare.”

The words spilled out of him.

“I—I don’t usually remember them, but this one—” He paused, jaw locking. “I was underwater. Or maybe it was blood. I don’t know. Jonah was there, but… wrong. His face was just… It was… gone .”

A tremor ran through him then, violent in its quiet. His breath fractured, catching behind clenched teeth. One hand jerked to his chest, then dropped, shaking, unsure what to do or where to land.

“I tried to reach him,” he gasped, “but I couldn’t. I couldn’t get close. I couldn’t breathe—” His throat closed around the last word. “I think… I think I was screaming.”

“Blue.”

His name came quiet but steady, even as something inside me buckled.

“I’m right here,” I said.

I reached out, slow enough to leave space for refusal. When he didn’t flinch, I let my hand settle at the back of his neck, fingers brushing skin that was warm and faintly damp.

There was nothing between us.

No gloves. No hesitation.

Just my palm against his skin—and the quiet, terrifying truth that I wanted it there.

I drew him forward until his forehead rested against my shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured. “You can let go now. I’ll hold it.”

His breath hit my collarbone in a burst. The muscles beneath my hand throbbed with strain.

I could feel him trying not to cry.

“I—I’m touching you,” he choked, lifting his chin. His gaze collided with mine, and then I saw it, the sudden flicker of horror, the mistaken belief that he’d done something wrong.

Something in me must have faltered. Maybe it was the clench of my jaw or the flash of tension I hadn’t hidden fast enough.

He recoiled instantly.

“I’m hurting you!” he gasped, trying to shove back.

“No, baby.” My voice broke as I caught his wrists. “You’re healing me.”

His breath stilled.

Fingers lifting, they trembled as they brushed the edge of my jaw, then higher, to my cheekbone. It was like fire, burning and soothing all at once.

Blue traced the shape of me as though he was mapping out my soul.

Hell.

When his fingers moved like that, I started to believe I might actually have one.