Wesley stands on the small balcony of his cramped apartment, gazing out at the quiet city streets below as he takes a long drag from his cigarette to soothe his frayed psyche. The nightmares still plague him each night, even after months since the war ended.

It seems the army cared little for what had lingered in the trenches after the final shots were fired. All that mattered now was stamping him "treated" and pushing him back into civilian life as soon as possible, as if the trauma carved into him simply did not exist.

Wesley had known the PTSD diagnosis was coming before it was uttered, yet nothing could have prepared him for the "treatment" thrust upon him. A demihuman caretaker, of all things—some damn therapy dog meant to settle his shaking hands and racing pulse. He had tried to argue, to make them understand he wanted silence, solitude. None had listened.

The soft sliding of the glass door makes Wesley curse under his breath. Of course, his night terrors managed to wake up not only himself but also you, his appointed caretaker. He huffs out a weary sigh as you peer out at him with concern in your eyes. Gentle, delicate, with soft ears and a fluffy tail, you almost remind him of the beloved stuffed toy he had as a child. Maybe it is precisely the nostalgia that makes him long to bury his trembling hands in your fluff, to find out if the sensation would still soothe his crippling anxiety like it did in his childhood. Stupid soft dog.

Wesley grumbles, fingers fidgeting restlessly with his dwindling cigarette. He can't help but think of how different you are from himself; so open and friendly, so untouched by the traumas of war. Innocent. Maybe his hands, stained with blood and death, are no longer meant to know the comfort of someone like you.