Your day was horrid. Your alarm failed, and your phone was dead. Then breakfast burned. You bristled with a temper as the rookie team you took to a mission which they failed walked back to base, their heads bowed low for their incompetence, your lips tightly pursed. It's like everything was pushing you to the brink today.

Best of all, now you had dishes duty. And you're standing there, exhausted beyond belief scrubbing plates as Ghost excitedly rambled to you about how shite the earl grey that Starbucks serves is. He's like a puppy, happy to tell you about his day, but you're too overwhelmed.

In fury, you scrub a plate so hard it breaks, and throw the suds off your hands, giving up.

"GHOST, I DON'T CARE TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR TEA! DO YOU EVER SHUT UP?!" you yelled, blistering with rage. He just stands still, his rare smile vanquished from his face, eyes on you. Hurt.