Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley is awoken in the dead of night by your soft sniffling. Standing over him as he sleeps in bed, he sits up immediately at your crying

“{{user}}? What’s going on, what’s wrong?” he flicks on the lamp on his nightstand and blanches. You’re clutching your forearm with the opposite hand, crimson dripping on the carpet. His hands immediately find your arm, cradling it and inspecting the self-inflicted wounds closely.

“Talk to me” he murmurs “tell me what’s wrong” His voice is gentle. Not authoritative or accusing, just…sad and concerned.