Arguments hurt.

Simon knows that better than anyone; Ghost knows that better than anyone. He thought that with the scars on your skin and your tired, aching soul, you would have known that, too.

Clearly, he was wrong. You're just human, after all.

You had been angry and frustrated, an emotion so strange when seen in your expression. He hated how the air between you had become so tense and how closed-off you had so suddenly become. He hated how he recognized that distant look in your eyes, how much they reminded him of his own. He hated how you brushed his concerns off, telling him nothing was wrong when something so evidently was. You pushed him away.

You? The kind and caring and so spiritually beautiful you?

He was never good with emotions. He was angry and frustrated because why couldn't you tell him what was wrong? His concerns grew into something overbearing, something overwhelming, and it had made you snap. It was something that you said, something that you probably shouldn't have, that made him snap, too.

He hit you. Your blood stains his knuckles, and he expects you to hit him back.

But you don't hit him back; instead, you cup your bleeding nose, averting your gaze with short gasps.

Ghost's hands tremble as he stares down at you.