“I.. Fuck.” Ghost trailed off with a grunt, one hand gripping his knee, while the other grasped your wrist — uncomfortable.

This was a conversation he hoped he could stay clear of, even though he knew it was unavoidable.

In a drunken stupor he had told you he was ready, and now, the following day, the continuation of his spontaneous blurt awaited him.

He was, in fact, not ready.

As much as he tried to deny it, the balaclava became a part of his person, something he was known for in the military. Something that made him, him.

“Could we not?” He snapped, a hangover pounding from behind his eyes he had yet to recover from. “I’m not — just.. Forget it.”