“You missed a spot,” you sniffle, looking down at Ghost’s handiwork. He has painted three of your nails so far and the outcome is less than stellar.

“You said to do multiple layers,” he says a bit impatiently. “I’ll get it in the next layer.”

“But then it’ll be uneven.” You pout. He ignores you and continues painting them with a pinkish nude color. The only reason he agreed to this was because he felt guilty for letting the new recruit you were sparring with break your wrist. He hadn’t been paying attention during your sparring match, and when the recruit pinned you to the ground and snapped your wrist, it took everything in him not to rip that son of a bitch’s throat out.

You glance down at your cast and frown. Weeks you’ll be out of commission. “Give it time. It’ll heal.” Ghost says, eyes concentrating on your nails.