A quiet kind of closeness. Comfortable silences. Occasional dry humor. The rare, fleeting moment when he let his guard down—usually after a mission, when his exhaustion dulled his edges.
It wasn’t romantic. Not technically. But you felt it building. The way his gaze lingered a little too long. The way he stood a little too close.
And then it all stopped.
He pulled back. Spoke less. Avoided shared meals. Gave you curt nods and nothing more. You tried to let it go, tried to be patient.
Until tonight.
You found him alone in the weapons bay, doing maintenance he’d already done twice this week.
“Are we good?” you asked.
He didn’t look up. “We’re fine.”
“You’ve barely looked at me for a week.”
Still nothing.
You crossed your arms. “Did I do something wrong?”
At that, he finally met your eyes. “No.”
“Then what is this?”
He paused. Then, with carefully measured coldness: “This is me keeping things simple.”
It stung more than it should have.
“Simple?” you echoed. “Is that what I was to you?”
“You weren’t anything to me,” he said, too quickly, too harshly.
Silence. The words echoed in the metal walls.
You took a shaky breath, nodded, and turned to leave.
But then—
“I didn’t mean that.”
You froze.
“I did it on purpose,” he said quietly, like confessing a sin. “I thought if I cut you off fast, it wouldn’t… hurt so much.”
You turned slowly. “You think not talking to me hurts less?”
He looked at you, mask off, expression drawn and tired and afraid.
“I think caring about you means I’m going to lose you,” he said.
The room was still.
And for the first time, you saw it—not just the fear, but the hope beneath it.
“Then you better make a decision, Simon,” you whispered. “Because I can’t stand here forever waiting for you to choose between pushing me away or letting me in.”
You left him there—weapon half-cleaned, heart fully exposed.
You’d been roommates in the barracks for a month—not by choice, really. Someone messed up the room assignments, and now here you were, learning that Ghost’s version of “quiet” meant actual silence and long, lingering glances you weren’t sure how to read.
At first, he kept to himself. No small talk. No eye contact. But over time, things shifted. You left coffee out for him once—he didn’t say anything, just drank it and rinsed the mug. The next day, he made you tea. No note. Just… tea. That was how it started.
Now it was part of the routine. Little things. Quiet things.
Tonight, you were both off duty, lounging in your respective bunks. You were reading. He was sharpening a knife. A peaceful, domestic sort of silence.
“You always read at night?” he asked suddenly.
You glanced up, surprised. “Only when I want to sleep well.”
He paused, looking at you across the room. “You don’t strike me as someone who has trouble sleeping.”
You smiled a little. “That’s because you don’t see me when I’m not reading.”
Ghost huffed a soft laugh and set the blade down. “What are you reading now?”
You held up the book. “Something sappy and romantic. Want me to read aloud?”
You meant it as a joke, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “Sure.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “Wait—really?”
He nodded. “Go on.”
So you did. You read softly, voice barely above a whisper, warmth filling the space between you. A story about two people falling in love slowly, quietly.
When you looked up halfway through a paragraph, Ghost was leaning back against the wall, mask still on, arms crossed—but completely still. Listening. Not just politely. Really listening.
After a while, you closed the book and smiled. “That’s enough sap for one night.”
But he surprised you again.
“Didn’t mind it.”
You laughed gently, tucking the book away. “Look at you, going soft.”
That much was obvious as he sat at the kitchen table, arms crossed, head resting against them, refusing to function without caffeine. His normally sharp eyes were half-lidded, his hair a mess from sleep, and if you listened closely enough, you could hear the faintest groan escape him every time he had to move.
You chuckled, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. "C’mon, tough guy. The battlefield’s waiting."
Barrage peeked at you, eyes narrowed. "Not until I have at least three sips of this," he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.
"Three sips? That specific, huh?" You slid into the seat across from him, chin resting in your hand.
"Tested. Proven," he grumbled, finally sitting up to take a long, slow drink.
You watched in amusement as he let out a deep sigh, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the world had suddenly lifted. "Better?"
Barrage set the cup down and gave you a lopsided smirk. "Almost." Then, before you could react, he tugged you forward, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead. "Now I’m good."
Your face felt warm, but you huffed, crossing your arms. "You just use me as an energy booster, don’t you?"
He laughed, taking another sip of coffee. "Not my fault you’re better than caffeine."
And just like that, your morning routine continued—filled with teasing, sleepy smirks, and the kind of warmth that even the strongest explosion couldn’t shake.
Homura stood at the edge of the battlefield, rain mixing with the blood on her hands. Her breath was ragged, her limbs heavy, but she didn’t fall. She couldn’t. Not when Madoka was still in danger.
Not when this was her last chance.
She turned, finding Madoka in the distance, standing amidst the ruins, eyes wide with sorrow. She had seen everything. The lengths Homura had gone to. The lies, the betrayals, the choices that had turned her hands red—all for her.
"Homura…" Madoka’s voice trembled. "Why?"
The question struck deeper than any wound. Homura opened her mouth, but no words came. What could she say? That she had rewritten the world for her? That she had walked through fire, through endless lifetimes of suffering, just to keep her safe?
That she had loved her too much to let her go?
The sky cracked with energy as the last embers of the battle faded. Time itself felt fragile, as if the universe was waiting—watching—to see what she would do.
Madoka stepped closer, her fingers brushing against Homura’s, hesitant but warm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore," she whispered.
Homura’s breath hitched. "I always had to."
Madoka shook her head. "Not this time."
Then, gently—so gently it nearly broke her—Madoka took Homura’s hands in hers. Light began to surround them, soft and endless, erasing the weight of all those lifetimes.
And for the first time in forever, Homura felt it.
Not the kind from a blanket or the morning sun creeping through the curtains—but the solid, steady warmth of Simon beside you.
His arm was draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even. You smiled sleepily, shifting just enough to glance up at him. His mask was off, but he was still mostly buried beneath the sheets, only a mess of blond hair and a hint of scruff visible.
It was rare to see him like this—completely relaxed, free from the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders.
You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His brows furrowed slightly, and for a second, you thought you’d woken him, but he just let out a quiet sigh and pulled you closer.
"You’re staring," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"You’re comfy," you countered.
He huffed softly, the closest thing to a laugh you’d get from him this early. His hand slid lazily up your back, tracing slow, absentminded patterns. "You’re clingy in the mornings."
"You love it," you teased.
"Mm." He didn’t deny it.
The room was still, the world outside not yet awake. No missions, no orders, no danger—just the quiet, steady rhythm of Simon’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.
The rain had been relentless all night, hammering against the windows of the safe house like impatient fingers demanding to be let in. You sat at the edge of the couch, a combat knife twirling between your fingers, the dim lamp casting flickering shadows on the wall.
Simon stood across the room, arms crossed, mask still on despite the lack of danger.
"You’re pissed," you noted, not bothering to look up.
"No," he said, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him.
You sighed, setting the knife down with a soft clink. "Then what’s with the brooding act?"
Silence.
Then, finally—"You almost got yourself killed today."
Ah. There it was.
"You act like that’s new," you murmured, but the joke fell flat in the tension-laden air.
Simon’s shoulders stiffened. "Not funny, Y/N." His voice was quiet, but there was something sharp underneath it, something raw.
You looked up, meeting his gaze—or at least, the dark hollows of his mask where his eyes should be. "I handled it," you said simply.
His jaw clenched. "You shouldn’t have had to handle it alone."
"Didn’t have a choice."
"You always have a choice," he shot back, stepping closer. His presence was heavy, suffocating in a way that was almost comforting. "But you—you run toward the danger. Like you don’t care if—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Doesn’t matter."
You frowned, something twisting in your chest. "Simon—"
"It matters," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "You matter."
The room felt smaller, the space between you shrinking despite neither of you moving. You swallowed, fingers gripping the edge of your seat.
"You never say things like that," you murmured.
"Yeah, well," he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Almost losing you makes a man reconsider a few things."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, hesitantly, you reached for his hand.
The old radio crackled to life just as Simon was about to turn in for the night.
At first, it was just static—faint, broken whispers lost in the hum of white noise. But then, through the distortion, he heard it.
A voice.
"Si?"
His breath hitched. He hadn’t heard that voice in five years.
"Si, can you hear me?"
His hands trembled as he adjusted the dial, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the storm raging outside.
"Y/N?" he whispered, barely believing his own voice.
"I don’t have much time," you said, your voice distorted but urgent. "I need you to listen."
Simon swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "Y/N, where are you? I thought—" His voice broke. "I thought you were gone."
Silence.
Then, a static-laced breath. "I was. But I found a way back. For now."
The lights flickered. The air in the room felt heavier, colder.
"Simon, you have to find me before it’s too late."
Then, just like that, the radio went dead.
Simon stared at it, his pulse roaring in his ears.
The funeral was small. Quiet. Exactly the kind you would have hated.
Gray skies loomed overhead, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth. People whispered condolences, hands gripping his shoulder, but Simon barely heard them. His world had shrunk to the casket in front of him, the one place where you now rested.
You were gone.
And you never knew.
He had loved you. God, he had loved you. But he had never told you. Not once.
Instead, he had let the words die on his tongue, too afraid to ruin what they had, too afraid of the possibility that you wouldn’t feel the same. So he had smiled through your stories about late-night dates with other guys, laughed when you teased him about being overprotective, pretended it didn’t kill him when you said, "You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you."
Now you never would.
A gust of wind blew past, rustling the flowers on your grave. A single white rose tumbled to the dirt, petals bending under the weight of raindrops.
It should have been different.
You should have known.
He should have told you.
But now, all Simon could do was stand there, fingers curled into shaking fists, as the last remnants of you were lowered into the ground—along with the words he never said.
The sunlight poured in through the curtains, filling the kitchen with golden shadows. The scent was coffee, vanilla, and a warm, sweet something.
“You're burning 'em, lovie.” Simon mocked, resting his elbows on the counter with a sleepy grin.
She scoffed, flipping the pancakes. “Excuse me, I'm a pancake master. These are perfectly golden.”
Simon walked over, peering over her shoulder. "Mm-hmm. And what’s that?" He pointed to the slightly darker one on the plate.
"A limited edition," she said smugly, popping a strawberry into her mouth before handing one to him.
He took it, but instead of eating it, he tapped it against her nose. "You’ve got flour on your cheek, by the way."
She gasped. "Simon!"
Before he had time to react, she dipped a small amount of batter on his arm. He glared at her in pretend horror.
"You ignited war," he growled.
She giggled, crinkling the eyes as she reached for another pancake. "And I shall win."
Simon simply shook his head, observing her move around the kitchen, like she belonged with him. And maybe—just perhaps—that was the best part of his mornings.
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