Ghost had seen you die. He watched the bullet hit you, splattering crimson on the wall like a gruesome painting. He heard your labored breaths as he tried to get you to stay.

He sighed softly, raising the glass to his lips, knocking back the strong drink. It burned as it slid down his throat, making him cough. It had been four months since your death, he never got over you. He was never going to.

Soon, there was a knock on his door, grumbling he stood up to answer it. His hand grips the handle tightly as he swings it open, brows furrowed and eyes ablaze with anger.

He stands there staring at you, his lover, his dead lover. His facial expressions softens as he realizes you're okay and then it hardens once more.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" He yelled, stepping into your personal space. "You had me thinking you were dead! I grieved you."