We are less than 2 weeks away from the Madison Square Garden show of Ghost. I am overjoyed and ready and completely prepared to see the man that transforms into Papa V bound across the stage. Here is some silliness that I conjured up. Been writing a lot and my imagination sometimes runs a little wild.
She blinked, as if her eyes were deceiving her, but no. That lean figure with the slightly disheveled hair tied in a low bun, clad in dark layers with sunglasses perched too lazily on his face to conceal who he really was... it was him. Tobias Forge. The man whose voice had haunted her kitchen speakers late at night while she prepped pastry dough. The same voice that carried her through heartbreak, hangovers, and the quiet solace of a solo glass of wine while stirring risotto.
And now, just a few feet away, in the quiet hum of a dusty little record store tucked into the corner of her neighborhood, he was flipping through vinyl like he wasn’t Tobias Fucking Forge.
J froze, unsure what to do. Her hands hovered uselessly over a crate of music she wasn't interested in, her heart pounding like it was trying to beat its way out through her ribs.
Do I say something?
Do I act cool?
Do I casually mention that I’ve got a tattoo of his lyrics on my wrist like a crazy person?
She exhaled quietly, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and tried to look casual, even though the record in her hands was upside down. She stole another glance.
He was just... there. Present. Real. And maybe—just maybe—he had no idea that one of his biggest fans was panicking five feet to his left, dressed in flour-dusted jeans and a jacket that still faintly smelled like roasted garlic and rosemary.
Tobias looked up suddenly, meeting her eyes for just a moment over the rim of his sunglasses. His lips curved into a small, polite smile.
And J…
J smiled back.
J’s mouth moved before her brain could stop it.
“Uh… you know they have a limited edition of ‘Opus Eponymous’ in the back?” she blurted out, voice just a notch too loud for the ambiance of vinyl and hushed reverence.
Tobias paused mid-flip, one brow quirking upward above the frame of his glasses. He turned his full attention to her now, curious, amused.
“They do?” he asked, his voice low, accented, and far smoother than any human being had a right to sound while standing next to a dusty stack of records.
J’s heart did a weird sideways lurch. Oh God. Oh no. He’s engaging.
“I mean—uh—yeah. Or they did. Last week.” She laughed awkwardly, cheeks burning. “Unless I hallucinated it. Which is possible. I was pretty sleep-deprived. Croissants don’t make themselves at four a.m.”
Tobias gave a soft chuckle, tilting his head. “Croissants, huh? You a baker or a sadist?”
J grinned despite herself. “Professional chef. With mild sadistic tendencies.”
“Ah,” he nodded, like that explained everything. “That explains the confidence. And the record store taste.”
Her insides twisted like warm sugar. Was that flirting? No. He’s just being polite. Or is he—?
“I’m J,” she said, a little too fast. Then, realizing he probably knew she knew who he was, she added quickly, “Not like, J-from-the-internet being a creep. Just… J. From the neighborhood. I live two blocks over. I cook things. Burn things, sometimes.”
Tobias held out his hand. “Well, J-from-the-neighborhood who isn't being a creep, it’s a pleasure. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” she said, cutting him off with a sheepish, breathy laugh. “Your voice has been in my kitchen more than my ex-husband.”
That got a real laugh out of him....dry and surprised, but genuine. “That might be the best compliment I’ve gotten all week.”
They stood there for a beat too long, both holding records they weren’t reading, the space between them charged but not uncomfortable. J shifted on her feet, her nerves still buzzing, but a smile had found its way onto her lips and stayed there.
“So… limited edition in the back, huh?” he said, giving her a slightly sideways look.
She blinked. “Oh, yeah. I definitely made that up. But it got your attention, didn’t it?”
Another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know, it really did.”
J’s mind whirred like a mixer set to high. Say something normal. Anything normal.
Instead she blurted, “Do you… uh… drink coffee that isn’t— I mean, you probably have artisanal Swedish roast flown in daily, but there’s a café next door that doesn’t taste like burnt tires, especially if it's kids temp....Would you…?”
Her cheeks flamed. How embarrassing.
Tobias’s smile spread, warm and steady. “A café without burnt tires served kids temp sounds perfect.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’ll even risk it burning hot if it keeps you talking.”
They paid for their vinyl and threaded through the store’s creaky door. A spring gust rattled the chimes, tugging a coffee-oil aroma toward them.
Inside the café, J managed three steps before her tote strap snagged a chair. Records slipped. She wind-milled, saved them—barely—and squeaked, “I do this professionally. Grace and poise.”
Tobias caught one escaping sleeve and set it back atop her stack as though handing her something precious instead of a dusty LP. “If that was rehearsed, you deserve an Oscar,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Plus, ‘Graceful Chef’ would be a very boring documentary.”
Heat crawled up her neck, but his gentle humor steadied her heartbeat. They claimed a corner table bathed in late-morning light, cups steaming between them like tiny cauldrons.
Tobias: “So pastry at four a.m.? That’s a level of devotion I reserve for demon summoning or mastering B-sides.”
J (snorting): “Croissants are demons. Butter demons. But when they behave, they’re worth the ritual.”
He listened, genuinely interested, as she described laminating dough until dawn, plating duck confit like little edible sculptures, and the thrill of coaxing joy out of strangers with food. Half the time she talked too fast, waving her hands. Half the time she realized she was talking with old dough under her fingernails and tried to tuck her hands under the table.
He sipped, asked questions, offered stories of writing lyrics on tour buses at three a.m. while the rest of the band slept. He admitted to burning more frozen pizzas than he cared to count. She confessed to singing “Rats” into a whisk when the kitchen was empty. They laughed in perfect, nervous harmony.
When conversation slowed, Tobias tapped a fingertip against his mug. “You mentioned roasting garlic earlier. That smell alone could write a chorus.” Then, softly: “Any chance I could taste the song itself sometime?”
J blinked. “A private tasting? Like… tonight?”
He raised his palms in mock surrender. “Only if you’re comfortable. I’ll happily stand in line like a mortal at your restaurant.”
“My place is closed Mondays,” she said, words tumbling out. “But I’m there testing summer menus after hours. It’s… quiet. Messy. You’d be a guinea pig.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have no idea why I just invited rock royalty into my disaster of a kitchen.”
“Because you’re brave,” he answered, warmth threading every syllable. “And because I’m exceptionally good at dish-washing.”
J laughed, covering her mouth. “Deal. Six-thirty? Side door.”
He slid his phone across the table. “You’d better program the address and number before I accidentally show up at the wrong bistro and taste somebody else’s croissants. That would be tragic.”
Their fingers brushed when she returned the phone. The contact saved simply as J (Kitchen Ghuleh).
Outside, afternoon sunlight painted gold on the sidewalk. Tobias adjusted his sunglasses, now more disguise than accessory. “I’ll try not to fan-boy over your mise en place,” he teased.
J hugged her records to her chest. “And I’ll try not to quote your entire discography at you.”
“Quote away.” He stepped back, gentle, giving her space to breathe. “See you at six-thirty, Chef.”
She watched him stroll off toward a waiting black sedan, every step somehow unassuming despite who he was. Only when he disappeared into traffic did she realize she’d been holding her breath.
J exhaled, smiled at the blue sky, and whispered to no one, “Food demons, behave. We have company tonight.”
Her phone buzzed. A new message.
> Tobias: Remember: I’m good with dishes. Save me something messy.
J’s grin grew so wide it startled a passer-by. She texted back:
> J: Hope you like to eat.
> Tobias: Always. Especially when it leads to music.
The instant connection crackled like a newly opened record....warm, imperfect, but gloriously alive.
By 6:15, J was pacing the prep kitchen like a lunatic. The industrial lights hummed. Her mise en place was laid out like a battlefield . Sauces ready, duck breast resting, handmade pasta waiting its moment. Panna cotta in the fridge cooling.
Her apron was stained with olive oil and basil, and she’d redone her eyeliner twice. Every time she checked her reflection in the walk-in fridge door, she asked herself: What the hell are you doing?
But when 6:30 hit, she heard a soft knock on the side door.
She cracked it open.
Tobias stood there, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers which were awkward, mismatched and charming. “I thought I’d try to be cliché,” he said with a soft smile.
J blinked, stunned for half a second, then opened the door wider. “Get in here before someone from Yelp sees you.”
The lights were low in the dining area, but the prep kitchen was glowing with warmth. She poured him a glass of wine and set it beside the service counter where she’d laid a single place setting. It was casual, but intimate.
She worked with focused grace but still awkward in how she muttered to herself, still apologizing for “the stupid sauce reduction I totally scorched earlier,” but Tobias watched her like she was a symphony.
She fed him dish after dish. He closed his eyes and hummed in genuine appreciation with each bite.
“Okay,” she said nervously as he wiped sauce from the corner of his mouth. “You’re not just being polite, right? You’d tell me if I served you shoe leather in demi-glace?”
He grinned, leaned his elbows on the counter. “J, if you opened a place called Shoe Leather and Balsamic, I’d still come. And I’d still leave full and weirdly happy.”
Her laugh bounced off the stainless-steel walls. She relaxed just enough to breathe.
After the final course, a lavender panna cotta so light it barely existed, Tobias stood up and helped her clean. She tried to stop him, but he rolled up his sleeves and grinned. “Told you I’m good at dishes.”
Side by side at the sink, they talked about everything. His fears. Her failures. Her divorce. His. His grief over his brother. Her insomnia. His dreams of disappearing sometimes.
She didn’t try to be impressive. He didn’t try to be the man onstage. And that was where the magic lived.
When the kitchen was clean, they sat on the loading dock steps behind the restaurant, wine in hand, listening to the buzz of the city at night.
Tobias looked at her. Really looked.
“You have this way of… disarming a room,” he said quietly. “Even when you're nervous. Especially when you’re nervous.”
J stared down into her glass. “I’m just... always nervous.”
“Then never stop,” he murmured. “It’s beautiful.”
And before she could stop herself, before logic or fear or awkwardness could interrupt, she leaned over... And kissed him.
Just a soft, uncertain kiss. Quick. Hesitant. Tiniest of pecks.
But Tobias chased it. Gently. Slowly. His fingers brushing her cheek, his lips warm and patient against hers. No rush. No pressure. Just yes.
When they finally pulled apart, breath mingling, he whispered, “I was really hoping for dessert.”
J blinked. “You just had panna cotta.....”
“I meant this,” he said, kissing her again.
J stood just off the side of the stage, the roar of the crowd a living, breathing thing vibrating through her ribcage.
Tobias had invited her here like it was nothing. “If you’re free Friday night… I’ve got a little gig at the Garden.”
She’d already had tickets. Of course she had tickets. She’d planned to scream herself hoarse from the nosebleeds, just like every other show. But instead, here she was....backstage. His plus one.
She’d been led through winding corridors by a polite assistant who kept saying, “He wanted you to be comfortable.” There was a small lounge with candles, a plate of her favorite chocolate-covered almonds, a monitor showing the stage, with her name on a card beside it all. She set the bottle of wine down that she brought with her.
Her heart wouldn’t stop fluttering. It wasn’t just the music. It wasn’t the magnitude of the venue. It was him. And what he did to her just by looking.
Now, onstage, the final chords of “Ritual” crashed into smoke and blood-red lights. The crowd screamed as Tobias....masked, theatrical, utterly in control, strode offstage, flanked by Nameless Ghouls.
J straightened as he approached, sweat-dampened and electric, and pulling off his gloves, to wipe the sweat on his pants.
He saw her and grinned. That grin. The one she’d only seen up close, across a cutting board and over her wine glass. It hit her like a punch to the gut.
Tobias walked straight over, took the bottle from the table, and raised it slightly.
“This your doing?” he asked, popping the cork the rest of the way and pouring a splash into a glass.
“Maybe,” J said, trying not to blush.
He took a big sip, then set the glass down and leaned against the table, just a few feet from her. “You look—” he paused, eyes tracing her frame in the dim light, then softened his voice— “like a fucking dream in that jacket.”
J blinked. “I thought this jacket screamed trying too hard.”
“It screams take me to bed after the encore,” he said smoothly, his voice low and teasing.
She covered her mouth, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Tobias! The fuck.....”
“What?” he grinned. “I’ve got three minutes ‘til I go seduce twenty thousand people. I wanted to flirt with you first.”
He stepped closer, now close enough that she could smell the sweat and cologne and stage fog that clung to him like magic. His gloved fingers touched her jaw, gently brushing hair behind her ear.
“I saw you,” he murmured, his thumb barely grazing her cheek. “From the stage. Between the lights. You were the only thing that didn’t blur.”
J’s throat dried up. “That’s not fair. You can’t say things like that right before going back out there and being literal sex in smoke.”
He smirked. “I can and I will. Because when I come off after the final bow…” His mouth grazed her ear. “I want you waiting for me.”
Her knees almost buckled.
A voice from the hallway: “Forge! One minute!”
He stepped back with a wink, grabbed his mic, slipped on his gloves, and just before turning the corner back to the stage, he tossed over his shoulder....
“You’ll wait for me, won’t you, Chef?”
J, completely undone, could only nod.
And then he was gone back into the fire and light, as if he hadn’t just melted her where she stood.
The thunder of the final encore still echoed faintly through the bowels of Madison Square Garden. The crowd was still chanting, refusing to let go, but Tobias Forge had already disappeared from the blinding light, mask in hand, sweat running down his temples, heart hammering.
J waited in the small private lounge they’d prepped for him. The wine was half-finished. Her palms were damp. Her heart? Wild.
The door opened with a soft click.
Tobias stepped in, his hair damp and tousled, face flushed from adrenaline. A towel hung over his shoulder, and his black costume shirt clung to him in places that made J’s brain go blank. His stage paints wiped away, but a little around his eyes made the green glow.
He looked at her like she was the first breath after drowning.
“Still here,” he said, smiling.
“I said I’d wait,” she replied, voice soft.
He didn’t speak. Just crossed the space between them in four long strides, took her face in his hands, and kissed her.
Not like the playful kiss from before.
This one was hungry. Grateful. The kind of kiss that says I’ve been waiting all night just to touch you again. He kissed her like he didn’t have a world outside of this room, screaming for Papa to come back to the stage.
When they finally broke apart, their breaths tangled and unsteady, J whispered, “You were… incredible tonight.”
He exhaled a laugh against her skin. “Wasn’t sure I could do it with you watching.”
She cupped his face, brushing his cheekbone with her thumb. “You’ve played to millions. I’m not that intimidating.”
“You’re more terrifying than all of them combined,” he said. “Because you see through all of it.”
She smiled, then hesitated.
And then… she asked it.
“Can I ask you something? And I don’t want to ruin this, but… I need to know.”
Tobias looked into her eyes, instantly serious. “Anything.”
J swallowed. “Are you… healed? From her? From Boel?”
His expression shifted....not dark, not bitter, but honest. The name hung in the air like static.
“I’m not… broken anymore,” he said carefully. “Not like I was. Divorce is like amputation. You don’t bleed forever, but you remember the missing piece.”
J nodded, waiting. She felt the same after her own.
“She was part of a different life. And for a while I tried to carry the whole thing with me....blame, guilt, the music, the masks.” His voice softened. “I kept building this empire of shadows because I didn’t know how to live in daylight anymore.”
He looked at her, a thumb now tracing her bottom lip.
“And then I met someone who smells like rosemary and wears knives at her hip and thinks she’s awkward but makes the world taste better just by being in it.”
Js eyes burned. “So… you’re saying I’m daylight?”
“I’m saying,” he whispered, “you’re the first person I’ve let in since the fallout. And I’m not scared of you wrecking me.”
She laughed wetly. “I could wreck you. I make a very strong espresso martini.”
He smiled and pressed his lips to hers again, tender and deep, lingering.
When he pulled away, he whispered, “I don’t want to be anyone’s ghost anymore, J. I want to feel real.”
She let out a shaky breath, tears gathering.
“Then come home with me,” she said. “I’ll feed you until you can’t stand. And maybe let you take this jacket off.”
He grinned, looping an arm around her waist.
“I would pry it off if I had to.”
J’s apartment still smelled faintly of caramelized shallots from a forgotten test recipe, but neither of them cared. The door shut behind Tobias with a soft click, and the hush that followed felt charged like another encore waiting to happen.
She toed off her boots, suddenly hyper-aware of the way her hair had frizzed in the damp spring air or the way her tee shirt damp from the venue. Tobias noticed none of it or maybe he noticed everything and loved it anyway; either way, he was smiling as though the night had saved the best stage for last.
J cleared her throat, nerves fluttering. “So… do you ever… uh, bring the mask home after shows?”
His brow arched, half-teasing, half-intrigued. “Are you asking for memorabilia… or for demonstration purposes?”
Heat flashed across her cheeks. “Purely academic research,” she dead panned, then ruined the act with a bashful laugh. “I mean, does it ever make an appearance when things get… you know… personal?”
Tobias’s grin turned wicked-sweet. He set his small stage bag on the counter, unzipped it, and produced the silver half-mask he’d worn all night.
“Only if my partner requests an encore,” he murmured.
J’s stomach flipped. She took the mask from his hands, turning it over like a relic. “Encore approved.” Then, with a burst of shy bravado, she pressed it gently over his face, the cool metal molding to his cheekbones. “How’s the fit?”
“Feels like temptation.” His voice came low through the mask, a ripple of bass that shivered straight through her.
She started to step back, but he caught her hips, drawing her close. “And how does the audience feel about interactive theater?”
J bit her lip, eyes bright. “W-we encourage crowd participation.”
A laugh rumbled from him, then he kissed her, the edge of the mask brushing her forehead while his free hand slid up her spine. The kiss was slow at first just tasting, and exploring but soon deepened, hungry and curious. She could feel the thrum of his pulse where their chests met.
“Hold still,” she whispered against his mouth, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. “Oops, stage wardrobe malfunction.”
He huffed a playful “Hey!” but lifted his arms so she could tug his sweat-damp tee shirt over his head. The mask stayed on; the rest followed. J’s fingers traced the lines of his shoulders, the ink on his arms, delighting in both the familiar and the new. Flesh and silver, man and myth.
Tobias’s hands roamed too, gentle at first, then more certain: up her sides, slipping beneath leather, past cotton, mapping every gasp he coaxed from her lips. When her jacket finally landed beside his shirt, he paused, drinking her in. His green eyes glowing behind the mask.
“This is surreal,” she breathed, fingertips on the cool curve of metal. “Kind of absurd. Kind of perfect.”
He leaned close enough that the mask grazed her cheek. “Absurd and perfect are my favorite flavors.” His mouth found her neck. Soft nips turning into slow, deliberate kisses that left her trembling.
They stumbled toward the bedroom in a tangle of laughter and insistent hands. Clothing trailed behind like breadcrumbs: her band tee, his belt, one sock she half-flung in triumph when it refused to cooperate. At the threshold, she hesitated, caught between giddiness and awe.
Tobias brushed knuckles along her jaw. “Tell me if anything feels wrong.”
“Only wrong thing is you still wearing half a face,” she managed, sliding the mask off with ceremony and setting it on her dresser. Beneath, still sweat-damp hair clung to his temple; those green eyes were raw, unguarded.
She pressed a kiss to his bare cheek where the mask had rested. “I like you better unmasked.”
“Good,” he whispered, guiding her down to the bed, “because that’s the version you are going to get right now.”
What followed was equal parts tender and wild. Urgent kisses that turned into startled laughter when her elbow hit the headboard, followed by murmured apologies and slow rediscovery. He traced the curve of her waist like a beloved melody; she mapped his freckles with her lips as if seasoning something delicate and rare. The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat and the slide of skin against skin, heat building with each shared gasp until everything else.....tour buses, divorce scars, the 20-thousand-person roar.... just fell away.
When they finally stilled, tangled beneath the comforter, J’s fingers played idly with a strand of his hair. Tobias kissed her shoulder, voice husky but light. “For the record,” he murmured, “academic research is my new favorite extracurricular.”
She snorted. “Peer-reviewed?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he sighed contentedly. “But I think we should replicate the study.....just to confirm the findings.”
J’s smile bloomed slow and wicked. “Encore granted, Mr. Forge.”
The night, it seemed, was far from over and neither of them minded one bit.
The morning light crept in slow, golden, and entirely too gentle for the ache J felt deep in her chest.
Tobias was still there, curled beside her, one arm draped over her waist, his face relaxed in a way she doubted anyone else ever saw. He looked… soft. Young. Human.
J resisted the urge to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips. Instead, she just watched him sleep for a moment, memorizing everything....the way his chest rose and fell against the sheet, the slight crease between his brows, like even in dreams, he was holding something back.
But time wasn’t on their side.
The phone on the nightstand confirmed it: 8:46 a.m.
He had to be on the tour bus by 10. On to Boston, then Philly, then across the damn ocean in a matter of days.
She exhaled quietly and slipped out from under the covers, pulling on a loose Ghost tee and wandered to the kitchen barefoot. She started a pot of coffee and leaned against the counter, arms folded, bracing for the inevitable.
Behind her, she heard the rustle of sheets. Then his voice....hoarse and sleep-warmed.
“You left the bed.”
J smiled to herself before turning. “You were drooling. I feared for my life.”
He appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, rubbing sleep from his eyes, hair a rumpled mess and no longer tied back.
“Valid concern,” he murmured. Then, as he reached for her, his voice dipped lower. “But I like waking up with you in my arms. Even if I’m a threat to your pillowcases.”
J leaned into him instinctively, letting her cheek rest against his chest. For a long moment, they just stood there, wrapped in that quiet, precious stillness.
Then reality started tugging at the edges.
“When do you have to leave?” she asked, her voice small.
He hesitated. “An hour.”
J swallowed hard and nodded, already feeling the sharp edges of distance starting to form.
“I’ll be touring for a few more weeks,” he added quickly. “More cities to conquer and turn to the dark side.”
She looked up at him. “Right. The Skeletour.”
He offered a small, crooked smile. “Not the cheeriest name for a goodbye.”
“Well, it is accurate. You’re leaving me in a pile of emotional bones.”
Tobias chuckled but it turned to something softer, sadder. “You make it hard to leave.”
“You make it hard to breathe,” she countered gently, hands resting at his hips. “I thought I was fine being alone. Then you waltzed in with your vinyl and your mask and your damn eyelashes and those hell fire green eyes.... and now I’m… stupid about you.”
“Stupid’s mutual,” he whispered.
She blinked back unexpected tears. “You’ll text me, right? Send cryptic lyrics that I have to decode like an emotional escape room?”
“All of it,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. “I’ll write entire verses about your lemon risotto and the way you say fuck when you forget about the bread in the oven.”
J laughed wetly. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything,” he said. “Including how last night felt like the first time in years I wasn’t just pretending to be okay.”
Silence stretched between them, weighty but warm.
“I made you coffee,” she said softly. “Though it’s probably subpar compared to whatever Swedish wizardry you usually drink.”
He grinned. “If it came from your hands, I’ll drink it like holy water.”
They sipped coffee together on her balcony, wrapped in a shared blanket, trading half-jokes and little silences. The city buzzed below like a distant song, but their world was just the two of them.
Eventually, the driver texted. He had five minutes.
Tobias dressed quietly. J stood at the door; arms crossed tightly over her chest as he picked up his small bag and slung it over his shoulder. Right before stepping out, he turned to her.
“J....”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever get tired of cooking for New Yorkers, there’s an open bunk on the bus. You’d be the first chef to survive a metal tour. Might even write a song about you surviving Ghoul farts and gas station food.”
She laughed and grabbed his collar, pulling him in for one more kiss....slow, deep, meaningful.
When she let go, she whispered, “Go melt faces, Forge.”
He winked. “Only yours, Chef.”
And then he was gone. Leaving his half drank cup of coffee on the counter and his silver mask on her dresser.
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