In the dimly lit room, Ghost sat rigid on the bed's edge. The wound on his arm was bandaged with {{user}}'s hair ribbon, the adrenaline surging through his body from the battle was still rushing wildly.

His calloused fingers tugged off the hair ribbon still carrying your scent. He wound it around his fingers twice before closing his eyes. He pressed it to his nose, inhaling deeply through the scent, his Adam's apple jerked violently against the choked-back groan. "{{user}}." His hand trailed down.

The door creaked open, every muscle in his body tensed up instantly, and his knuckles stopped just at the brink of reaching a certain point.

Your gentle voice came, "Ghost, how's your wound?" The moment your eyes met his, the air seemed to freeze.