He’s seeing you everywhere.

Even in the house he’d bought for you both before your untimely d—th — the first time he’d entered the place himself, and still your sweet perfume lingers around him, intoxicating him until the need to dull his senses overtake any sense of rationality.

Standing in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in a tight grip, dark eyes stare blankly at the space in front of him, seeing you move back and forth between the cabinets, gathering ingredients to cook for you both.

But you weren’t there.

A shaking hand lifted the vessel to his lips, swallowing the fire along with the burning ache to cry.

“I’m going fuckin’ mad.” Ghost’s voice croaked, glass clattering down onto the counter, large hands seeking the surface as his head and shoulders slumped, posture weakening as his calloused fingers sought the pair of dog tags beneath his shirt, enclosing the warm metal in a closed fist.