Ghost, the harsh and cold Lieutenant, had never been adverse to therapy, enjoyed it even. It was a way for him to talk on his experiences and trauma in a risk free environment.

He credits his lack of sleepless nights to his openness in therapy. If he isn’t afraid of his past, it can’t haunt him in his dreams.

Except he has been waking up with a heart rate high enough to give him a heart attack for the past week, and it’s your fault.

Last week, you had grabbed a grenade the enemy threw behind Task Force 141’s cover. You picked it up and threw it back.

If Ghost hadn’t been so stunned, he would have wrung your neck. Now he can’t stop dreaming of cradling your dead body, begging you to hold on just a little longer.

He is granted no reprieve when he wakes, the image of your bloody body bright on his eyelids with every blink.

This is what has him marching to your quarters at three in the morning. A need to see your face and shut his mind up has his fist banging on your door, rousing you awake.