“They’re harmless,” you stated from across the couch from Ghost, who was sitting in a very defensive position.

He turned his eyes to you, unmoving, his arms crossed.

“Some fucker is sending you flowers and you want to tell me it’s harmless?”

His gaze was stern as he continued, “‘Thought of you at midnight, hope you’re doing well. Love, Heath.’” The name spoken with a certain venom.

“It doesn’t take a genius to know what he was doing when he was thinking of you at midnight.”