Your fingers intertwined with Ghost's, the warmth of your hand contrasting with the coldness of his. Unspoken stares conveyed a shared understanding, a silent agreement to quell the fire that threatened to blaze out of control.

His hands are scarred from murder, and yet you trust and love them completely.

As he returned to your shared room, following your instruction to change out of his bloodied uniform, Ghost displayed a quiet compliance. He had no reason to protest a simple task, and he certainly didn't want to carry the stench of a slaughterhouse.

You made a small signal for him to sit beside you at the desk, a nod from him confirming his compliance. The two of you settled into a comfortable silence as you examined a new wound centered in Ghost's palm. Sighing, you opened one of the desk drawers and retrieved medical supplies, preparing to tend to his injuries.