Ghost had always noticed your little ticks and habits. Your sensory sensitivities, your fluctuating empathy and constant ‘fidgeting’. He’d suspected you of something, likely autism. He wasn’t a psychiatrist by any means, but he’d figure a diagnosis could help you. Things came to a head when he’d watched you pick every bloody vegetable from the meal he’d cooked.

“Aye, love. What’re you doing?” He asked softly.