Simon likes to pretend like he’s indifferent to you. Like he couldn’t care less about your presence in a room.
But you know the truth. Of course you know the truth. Because how couldn’t you know?
It showed up in minuscule ways.
The scent of mouthwash, fresh on his breath, every time he chose to visit you.
The way his eyes would flick back and forth from your face, as if you weren’t painfully aware of his staring, when you sat next to him in the helicopter.
The way his leg would bounce erratically when it was just the two of you in the break room, sorting through files without Price’s watchful eye—like two teenagers on a first date, trying to muster up the courage to kiss before their chaperone returned.
It appeared when he saved the last dregs of coffee in the pot just for you. Or when he hovered over the climbing anchor, just to help you up after a steep trek. Or how he always pretended like he wanted his space on team movie nights, until an hour had passed and his thigh was resolutely pressed against yours.
Simon told the boys he thought you were annoying. That even after all this time, your presence set him off, like you disrupted the flow even now, a year into joining the team.
But by the way his pupils follow you behind the shadows of his mask, blue eyes melting right into little puddles every time he studies your frame…you can see the nervousness you inspire. The deep, bone-aching loneliness in his heart. The yearning that just barely appears in the first syllable of his every word.
When you say ‘hello’ to him in the hallway and he never says ‘hello’ back, you’re not offended.
Because you know that if he ever opened those tight lips, all he’d be able to mutter is ‘I love you.’
the land was a cruel mistress, and your kingdom's enemies moreso. rulers from all over the world sought out the power that was held within the territories conquered by your father's army.
however, his actions endangered not only his life but his family's, including you, his precious daughter. unable to produce any viable siblings, you became the sole heir to the throne.
after the first attempt on your life, your security doubled. a suffocating amount of knights surrounded you at all times, each one more clumsy than the next. your father had good intentions, but he assigned the sloppiest of his men to your protection detail.
when the second attempt to take your life was closer than the first, your father saw the importance of competent men overseeing your safety.
thus, assigning his greatest knight to your side.
simon was his name. you didn't bother to learn his last because you were certain he wouldn't be around for long. your father said he sent his best, and quite frankly, you had your doubts. he had assured you the previous men were among the strongest, and see how that turned out.
but the look in simon's eyes unnerved you. through the ocularium, dark, heavy-lidded eyes stared back at you with light colored lashes and dark circles under his eyes—faint but noticeable through the small gap. a crease between his brow wasn't lost on you, and you deducted that he'd rather be anything but your head of protection.
regardless, he didn't make a noise of complaint. he didn't actually say anything at all. he spoke in grunts and long exhales, which you learned to translate after few too many bad decisions that nearly harmed you.
nearly.
because, my god, simon was good at his job. he was competent and more. for once in your life, you felt safe and out of harm's way with him by your side and standing guard.
it was only natural you began to harbor feelings for the strong knight—how could you not? strong and capable with a gruff voice and a temper, he was everything in your eyes.
you didn't even know what the man looked like, only catching a short glimpse that one time you went to his quarters for an inquiry and caught the side profile of his face, along with the muscular, scarred skin of his bare back. you fantasized about him for weeks after, sighing dreamily whenever you wrote.
it was raunchy, and everything a princess should not be doing, especially about someone with royal blood. someone who didn't share your wealth. someone who didn't have power or influence.
someone like simon.
none of that mattered to you, for whatever you felt in your heart was the truth. you loved him.
and you were doomed. because whether or not his heart shared the same sentiment, your father found a man for you in the next kingdom over. he was wicked, grotesque, and a man who'd have you bear his children and sit and look pretty. that's all women were to these men in power.
the night of your wedding came. your ladies dolled you up in the most extravagant gown and prettied your hair and makeup. not one of them caught the longing look in your eyes when you glanced back at the knight in armor, stood in the corner to watch.
a dread swirled in your chest, and your knuckles whitened, enough so that the thorns from the bouquet you clutch pricks your skin.
"yer bleedin'." one of the girls gasps, hurrying for a handkerchief. she stumbles back when simon steps forward, handkerchief in his steel hand. he orders them away with a swift yank of his head, and their heels clicked down the hall as they scurried away.
he held the handkerchief outwards you, but when you grasp it, he doesn't let go. "you do not wish to marry." your heart flutters. his voice.
he never dared speak around you, as mentioned, he made unpleasant sounds which you often had to decipher to depict his mood. you straightened, tugging the cloth from his grasp.
"So you speak." you spoke smoothly, not wishing to betray your shock.
"we do not need words to." he clears his throat, eyes sharp behind his helmet. "I can tell just from yer eyes that yer dreadin' this."
you turn away swiftly, wiping the red from your skin. when you meet your own eyes in the mirror, only then you can see what he sees. the pinch in your brow, the darkness under your eye, the glaze of unshed tears. you sigh dreadfully. "it doesn't matter what I feel."
"it does."
"not to my father." your grit out.
"no but to you." he steps forward, armor and chainmail clinking with the movement. "and me."
your heart skips a beat. you had an inkling of suspicion simon might've reciprocated the feelings you felt, but with no way to tell, you said nothing. you were so close to walking down that aisle on simon's arm, guiding you to the new man in your life.
you shake your head. "there's nothing that can be done. I must marry. I must bear children. I must..." you trail off, unable to complete the words.
"run away."
ice cold shock awakens your body, and the look you shoot the man behind the armor is undescribable. "what?" you bite out.
"run away. far from here." he repeats, louder, as if I hadn't heard him the first time.
you swivel on your feet so suddenly, you don't realise how close simon had gotten. bumping his armored chest, he reaches to steady you. the metal is cold. "do you think I have not already thought of that? my father would have sent you after me."
"and I would have halted once I realized how suffocated you are." he put it so plainly, you almost thought he was pulling a trick on you but that look. that look in his eyes through those small slits told you everything.
he holds out his hand. an invitation, an escape.
you stare at it, but you don't take it. not yet.
"why? why would you help me?" half a demand, you must know the answer to the question gnawing at your insides.
you couldn't see it, but you could hear the faint swallow behind his armor, followed by a gutted whisper. "because I cannot dare to see you marry another man."
his hand moves an inch closer, emphasizing his wait for your approval. you glance back over your shoulder at yourself, with the big dress, pretty hair, fancy makeup, and expensive jewelry that belonged to rulers far more important than you.
neighbor!simon riley who can't say no to you asking him for help (and still does things without you having to).
pt.1
ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.
you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed off—in reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.
so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.
and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.
first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it was—since he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.
it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.
with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.
until you notice something odd.
coming home from work—this time, your car light remains off—you get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.
what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?
yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.
so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.
except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.
his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.
"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."
planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.
but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.
but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.
neighbor!simon riley and the mundane tasks he does to make things easier for you
when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.
you thought that was that.
for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.
you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.
until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.
you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.
without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.
what the hell?
the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.
he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.
when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?
you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.
he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.
it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.
so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.
the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.
with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).
just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.
you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.
"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"
the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.
after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.
when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.
you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.
he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.
"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.
he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."
your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.
"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"
"simon."
"really? you look like a greg."
he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.
simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for days—or until you ask for his help again.
even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt.
simon 'ghost' riley has loved you since before he knew love could exist without fists.
he’s loved you since you were ten and haphazardly pressed a plaster over his skinned knee with trembling hands.
he’s loved you since he was fifteen, standing on your mum’s doorstep with a black eye and a split lip, blood on his teeth, whispering, “can I stay?” like it was the only safe place he knew.
he’s loved you since seventeen - since the first time he sank inside you, clumsy, breathless. since your nails carved down his back and you whispered his name in his ear like it was something sacred and he believed for one perfect moment that he could be more than the violence he came from.
he’s loved you since the day he told you he was enlisting. since he promised he’d call, he’d visit, he’d write.
he's loved you every time he's broken every single one of those promises.
and he still loves you now - six months post discharge - perched on a rooftop across from your apartment, watching you through the scope of a rifle he no longer has use for.
he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. the word felt too dirty and impersonal for what he was doing to you. he was just… watching. observing. keeping you safe in a world that was more dangerous than you would ever know.
torturing himself in the only way that still made sense.
he knows your routine by heart. 07:12 every morning you leave your building - give or take a few minutes if the lift isn't working. he knows you order a flat white with oat milk and caramel syrup and that the barista smiles at you like you're a regular she actually likes. he knows you order a croissant on weekdays and a cinnamon bun on the weekends - that clearly your sweet tooth hasn't changed in over a decade.
he knows that you sometimes linger on your balcony at night when sleep won't come, smoking one cigarette after another, blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders whilst a cat peers at you through the glass door.
good, you got the cat then. you always wanted one.
every time the cherry of your cigarette glows orange in the night his chest pulls tight.
he should tell you he's back.
that he's been back for six months. six fucking months of being back in the same city, walking the same streets, observing you from afar instead of knocking on your door.
but how the fuck is he supposed to look you in the eyes now? how is he supposed to look at you as ghost when all you would see is simon, and simon got put away in a box in the back of his mind a long, long time ago. how was he supposed to tell you that the boy - the kid - that you loved is gone, replaced with someone who has blood on his hands that will never wash off. that the boy who used to sneak chips off your plate and once trembled when you touched him had grown up and become more monster than man.
he was terrified you’d look at him with pity.
worse - he was terrified you’d see him for what he really was.
so instead, he sits on this rooftop most nights in a black hoodie, scope pressed to his eye, telling himself he's keeping you safe. that this is all he can offer you anymore. that watching from a distance is better than letting you get close enough to see the rot.
he remembers the boy he used to be - the one that turned up at school with split lips and cigarette burns on the back of his hands, that held your hand in secret under your desk. the one that started fights on your behalf without hesitation. the one your mum started letting in without hesitation because she knew how bad things were for him at home.
but that boy? dead. buried. gone.
what replaced him doesn't deserve to be near you.
but still, he stays. he watches.
he mourns what he won't even let himself try to have from afar.
he watches the way your fingers pick at the edge of your blanket. he catalogues every sigh, every distant look in your eyes, every downturn of your lips. he hates whatever keeps you up at night. he hates even more that he isn't brave enough to find out what it is.
some nights, after your balcony light clicks off and you disappear inside, he stays longer than he should. lets himself imagine what would happen if you looked across the street and saw him. if instead of fear or disgust, you gave him that soft, lopsided smile you used to save just for him.
he always crushes the thought before it can take root.
he's taken more lives than a graveyard can hold. the idea that someone soft might still want him seems impossible to fathom.
so he keeps his distance even as the line between want and need grows thinner.
keeps you safe from the worst parts of the world.
and himself.
every night he sits there on that rooftop, scope pressed to his eye. chest cracking open for a person who has no idea that the spectre of the boy they used to love has come home - and knowing he's too much of a coward to tell you.
Can’t stop thinking about Simon Riley who doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself when you leave for a week for your friends' bachelorette trip.
He’s used to being away from you. It’s his job. So, he tells you not to worry when you kiss him goodbye on your tippy toes, four days is nothing compared to the months he’s been away.
He grossly underestimated how different it’d be when you were the one gone.
The first day he’s fine, does mundane tasks around the house to distract himself. Mows the lawn, fixes that part of the fence you’ve been asking him too for weeks.
The second, he goes to the pub with Johnny, drinks one too many beers to fill a sudden void, and stumbles home to a terribly empty and cold bed.
The third day feels heavy, like there’s a mass weighing on his chest and making it hard to focus on anything other than you. The phone call he makes isn’t any better.
“Miss you.”
He says it first, quiet and uncertain. The giggle that follows makes his heart tighten.
“Miss you too, Si.”
You whisper it, so soft, and so fucking sweet he wonders how he ever left you to begin with. Hearing your voice should settle him, but it only makes his chest heavier. You should be there with him, sat in his lap, and pressing those words into his skin.
Day four he’s staring at pictures of you in his wallet and brushing his thumb over your face like he’s on deployment. Like it’s been months since he’s seen you and not four bloody days.
He doesn’t sleep that night when all he tastes is guilt. When this is how you must feel when he’s gone. A bed too big for one person, one pair of shoes at the door when there should be two, indents in the couch that aren’t filled.
It’s the first time he genuinely considers leaving the SAS.
Cw: infidelity, reader is verging on OC here, very light physical description (wears glasses, is shorter than soap)
Regency!AU where you’ve just entered an arranged marriage with John MacTavish, and you’ve already heard whispers from servants and nobles alike about the girls he’s entertaining on the side. You sigh, disappointed but not surprised.
He’s never shown any interest in you. Not during your debut, not in any courting season, and certainly not now that you’re married. Quiet, studious, with no interest in socializing beyond a small circle. If anything, you’ve only ever been an obstacle to him— your desire for quiet and to study the flowers has robbed many a late night garden tryst of its privacy at social galas.
Not to mention your spectacles. He’s never understood some men’s taste for those.
But your family was of no small renown (distantly related to the royal family, some gossiped), and his had connections overseas. The match made sense. Well, to anyone but the people who had met you both.
He’ll admit you’ve piqued his curiosity when you invite him to speak with you privately. You couldn’t mean to confront him regarding his dalliances, could you? Because it wouldn’t do you any good. He needs some kind of stimulation in this dull, countryside manor.
You smile at the maid as she departs, having just set down the silver tea tray and chatted with you for a spell while you awaited your lord husband— late as usual. He’s always found it strange how you keep such a closer rapport with servants of all people.
You stand to greet him as he enters the garden, smiling like you don’t have a care in the world. Sweetly. You tuck a strand of hair back into place. That is, right before you slap him across the face. Hard.
And the poor man, he’s reeling— feels as if the wind has been knocked out of him. Since when could you hit harder than some of his mates? That train of thought ends when you grab him by the lapels and yank him downward to eye level. The fury he sees cannot be overstated.
“You think I care that my man-whore of a husband wants to wet his cock? I don’t. But should you wish to keep your manhood, you’ll do so in private,” you grit out, teeth bared at him. “I’ll not be humiliated by you. I’ll not be the subject of pitying gossip. Do not provoke me. Am I clear?”
He nods hastily once he re-learns how to move his head. You let go, but not without a slight shove that he sheepishly struggles to recover from. “Good. Now leave me be.”
You proceed to arrange your skirt suitable and sit at the garden table, picking up a cup to sip from, opening a journal and perusing it as if he isn’t even there.
Johnny leaves the garden quietly, retreating to your (scarcely) shared chambers to catch his breath.
And for a week or two, no words reach your ears about his liaisons. It’s a blissful time, but your satisfaction doesn’t last for long.
Because your husband has suddenly become nauseatingly affectionate. Scarcely leaving your side when he has his way, prompting you to sneak him improper kisses, holding your hand so he can kiss his way up your wrist in a most unbecoming way.
More than once, you hear of his former paramours. Humiliated, snubbed by him seemingly out of nowhere when you’d only told him not stick his hands up their skirts in plain view of others. Now he seemingly only has eyes for you, calling you bonnie and darlin and all other manner of sickening pet names. He’s even taken to playfully plucking the spectacles from your face— sometimes to clean them when they fog up from a hot drink, other times to hold them behind his back as random while he demands a kiss in exchange for their safe return.
My god, and the vile things he whispers to you when you find yourselves alone. Begging you to let him lift your skirts, to see that cute little cunt and give it a good licking, telling you about how he stroked himself in the bath last night thinking about you, how you should join him tonight—
Worst of all, he’s asking all manner of inane questions. Namely, which room you want to become the nursery.
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
a few friends had gathered to celebrate a mutual friend’s engagement, and of course, to fawn over the giant rock sitting pretty on her left hand.
“it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,” she says, eyes misting up. “flowers everywhere. candlelit dinner on this beautiful terrace. he even hired a string quartet.”
everyone awws at once.
you twist your own ring around your finger.
“you’ll never believe what james did for me!” someone else says, and like it always does when you all get together, it becomes less of a conversation and more of a contest.
they all take turns gushing over their partners and all the grand, romantic gestures that have happened recently, each story somehow bigger than the last. flowers. surprise trips. hotel rooms covered in rose petals. tickets to shows they had only mentioned wanting to see once.
all in some absurd, glittering attempt to prove who is adored more.
they all turn to you.
what had you and simon been up to recently?
you swallow.
the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.
it had been nice.
it had been normal.
but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.
“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”
another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.
“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”
her voice begins to fade into the background.
you look down at your ring again.
it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.
of course he loves you.
he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.
but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.
does he still care?
you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.
hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.
you shuffle in your seat.
“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.
rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.
his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.
usually, that would be your cue.
you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.
you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.
instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.
simon notices.
because of course he does.
you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.
the tap sticks.
you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.
simon is behind you before you can even turn around.
“probably clogged,” he says.
you sigh.
“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”
his head tilts.
“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”
you make a small noise under your breath.
his eyes flicker from the sink to you.
“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”
“why?”
your stomach lurches.
you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.
but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.
why would he need to?
why would he think to?
why would he care to?
why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?
“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”
simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.
the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.
for a moment, you don’t move.
you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.
another clank.
a muttered curse.
you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.
simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.
“si?”
he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.
“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”
wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.
water rushes out, hot and clear.
for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.
simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.
“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.
he shrugs.
“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”
your chest tightens.
because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.
it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.
you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.
you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.
“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”
he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.
“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”
simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.
three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.
then sketches.
then sawdust tracked through the hallway.
then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.
you’d laughed then.
you remember that, too.
you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.
you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.
you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.
you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.
your eyes move across the room.
towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.
the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.
the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.
the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.
a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.
your heartbeat quickens.
the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.
his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.
“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.
his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.
your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.
you shake your head at first
then stop.
because no, that isn’t fair either.
he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.
but you still want flowers sometimes.
you still want to be asked to put on a dress.
you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.
“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.
his brow furrows.
“never said you didn’t.”
simon stills.
“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”
something shifts in his face.
“more,” he repeats.
you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”
your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.
“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”
“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.
you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.
you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.
you.
“friday,” he says.
you blink. “friday?”
“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”
despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.
simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.
“are you asking me on a date, riley?”
his mouth twitches.
“seems like i am.”
you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.
then back at him.
“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”
simon’s eyes darken.
you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.
his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.
your table.
his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.
you smile.
“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”
his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.
At Toba aquarium in Japan, after closing time, some clever little otter pups help their grandpa tidy up their toys. As a reward, he gives them ice cubes
You don't think much of it when you post the photo.
It's just Instagram, just you in that burgundy dress your friend insisted you wear, champagne glass tilted in your hand, mid-laugh at something the bride said. The caption is simple: "To love and borrowed heels." Someone's arm is slung around your shoulders. The sunset does that golden-hour thing that makes everyone look like they're in a movie.
You're three drinks in and riding the high of a night where no one's shooting at you, where the loudest sound is bad wedding DJ music, where you're not Sergeant anything - just a friend who showed up and remembered to bring a card.
It feels good. Normal good.
You don't think about the fact that Simon follows your account. You definitely don't think he'd care.
The likes trickle in while you're dancing barefoot on the venue lawn. College friends, distant cousins, a few people from base who you're pretty sure just follow everyone. Then some comments:
"STUNNING"
"Who is she!!"
"Save me a dance next time?"
That last one's from Matt - college boyfriend-adjacent, never quite official, still friendly. You liked the comment without thinking, because that's what you do. It's polite, and it’s nothing.
You don't see Simon's username in the list. No like, no comment. Which makes sense, because Simon Riley doesn't exactly engage with social media. You're half-convinced he only has an account to lurk, maybe keep tabs on operational security, make sure no one's posting anything stupid.
You slip your phone back in your clutch and let your friend pull you back toward the dance floor.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂♡ ₊ ⊹
Monday morning, you're back.
The base feels smaller after a weekend in the real world, like putting on boots that don't quite fit anymore. You drop your bag in your quarters, tie your hair back, and head to the gym before the briefing.
Simon is already there.
He's at the bench press, headphones in, face obscured by the black surgical mask and that eternal thousand-yard stare. You've worked with him long enough to know he's clocked you the second you walked in but he doesn't acknowledge it.
"Morning," you say anyway, heading for the locker.
He grunts. Standard.
You start your warm-up, letting the rhythm clear your head. Five minutes in, you catch him in the mirror. He's sitting up between sets, and his eyes are on you - just for a second, flicking away the moment you glance back.
Weird.
"Good leave?" you ask, because the silence feels heavier than usual.
"Just fine."
"Do anything fun?"
"No."
Classic Simon. You grin despite yourself, upping the incline. "Yeah, me neither. I just attended a wedding. Ate cake, cried during the vows like a cliché. You know, the usual."
You're not sure why you're telling him this. Maybe because he never asks, so it feels like you have to fill the space for both of you.
"It looked like you enjoyed it," he says.
You almost trip.
Your head snaps toward him, but he's already lying back down, gripping the bar like he didn't just admit he saw your post. Looked. Past tense. Which means he went to your profile. Which means–
"You saw that?" You don't know why your voice pitches up. "Didn't think you were the Instagram type."
"I’m not."
"Then–"
"Soap sent it to the group chat."
Oh.
Of course he did. You make a mental note to strangle Johnny later.
"Right." You clear your throat, face heating. "Well. Yeah. It was nice. Being a person for a weekend."
Simon doesn't say anything.
You finish your workout in silence.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂♡ ₊ ⊹
It's small things after that.
He's always been quiet, always been distant - it's part of the package with Ghost. But now there's something else, something you can't name. He watches you longer across the briefing room. Stays an extra minute when you're cleaning your rifle in the armory, pretending to check his own gear. Asks Soap where you are when you're ten minutes late to drills, voice flat, casual, like he's just wondering.
You don't know what to do with it.
You've had a thing for Simon for months now.. maybe longer, if you're honest. It's the kind of crush that feels silly and impossible at the same time, because he's Ghost. He barely speaks to you outside of ops, and even then it's clipped orders and callsigns.
But sometimes, late at night when the base is quiet, he'll sit with you in the common room. Won't say much. Just nurse a tea while you read or scroll your phone, like he's keeping you company without acknowledging that's what he's doing.
You like him there.
You hate how much you like him there.
It's Soap who finally says it.
"Simon's been weird, yeah?" he asks one afternoon, leaning against the doorway of your quarters like he belongs there.
You throw a towel at him. "Get out."
"Answer the question first."
"He's always weird, Johnny."
"Nae." Soap grins, that troublemaker glint in his eye. "This is different. The lad's been brooding more than usual. By the way, he checked your Instagram account during the briefing last week."
Your stomach flips. "He did not."
"Did too. I was sitting right behind him." Soap taps his temple. "Saw the username clear as day. He even scrolled a bit."
"Why would he–"
"Oh, come on." Soap's grin widens. "You're not that oblivious."
You are, apparently, exactly that oblivious.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂♡ ₊ ⊹
You don't confront Simon.
You don't know how. Don't even know if there's anything to confront. Maybe he just thought the dress was nice. Maybe you're reading into nothing because you want it to be something.
But then it's Friday night, and you're alone in the rec room, halfway through a mission report that's putting you to sleep, when he walks in.
No gear. Just a black hoodie, jeans, the mask. He pauses when he sees you, like he's deciding whether to stay.
"Don't let me chase you off," you say lightly, not looking up.
He doesn't leave.
Instead, he crosses to the kitchenette, puts the kettle on. You listen to the familiar sounds - the click of the burner, the quiet settle of him leaning against the counter.
"Tea?" he asks eventually.
You blink. Simon doesn't offer. Not usually.
"Yeah, sure. Thanks."
He makes two cups in silence, sets one beside you. Earl Grey, splash of milk, no sugar. Exactly how you take it, which means he's been paying attention, which means–
"That friend of yours," he says.
You freeze. "What?"
"The one in the photo. The comment."
Oh, God. You're going to kill Soap.
"Matt?" Your voice is careful, confused. "He's just.. we went to school together. It wasn't–"
"It's alright."
You set down your pen, turning to face him. Simon's still standing. There's tension in his shoulders, the same tension he gets before a drop, except you're not going anywhere. You're just here. Both of you.
"Simon," you say quietly. "What's going on–"
"You looked happy."
You didn't see this coming. Your chest tightens.
"I was," you admit. "It was a good night."
"Different," he says. "Out there. You're different."
"Is that bad?"
"No." The word comes fast, rough. "Just… sometimes I forget you've got that. A life outside this."
Outside us, you almost hear.
"I've got both," you say. "The night-outs, the friends, the silly Instagram photos." You pause. "And this. The base. The team."
You.
You don't say it. But it hangs there anyway, in the two feet of air between you, in the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure out if you mean it.
"Someone's gonna see you one day," he says finally, voice low. "In a dress like that. And they're not gonna let you go easy."
The words hit you sideways. There's something raw in them, something that sounds almost like resignation. Like he's already decided how this ends.
Your throat feels tight. "Maybe that's not really up to them."
His eyes meet yours, and for a second - just a second - you see it. The way he's holding himself back from something he won't let himself have.
Then he picks up his mug, takes a long drink, puts it down, and steps back.
"Finish your report," he says, voice returning to that familiar gruffness. "Price wants it Monday."
"Sim–"
"And get some sleep." He's already moving toward the door. "Got drills at 0600."
And then he's gone.
You sit there in the quiet rec room, your tea cooling in your hands, his mug abandoned on the counter beside the kettle.
Something opened between you tonight. Just a crack, just enough to let you see inside.
But Simon's not ready to walk through that door yet.
And you're not sure if you should wait for him, or if waiting is just another way of letting yourself hope for something that might never come.
You head back to your quarters, lie awake for a long time, replaying his words.
simon wasn't one for pick-up lines. everyone told you as much in case you end up in a headlock with broken neck as result.
he came everyday at the shop, nervously placed his order without looking at anyone except straying his gaze just when you're handing him the unnamed coffee cup and then he would come by again the next day; same time, always on your shift.
and when you exchanged your shifts then it was purely coincidental that simon came making a second round for coffee just as unbothered and stiff and grudgy
huh, you wanted to see him smile or say something that wasn't keep the change.
“don't...this is scary.” your friend told you as much, with an ominous glance to where simon's bike made a stop outside as always on time.
“it might cheer him up though, c'mon.” you grinned—fixing the stupid collar—and greeting him with a big smile. “what would you like?”
simon perked, a physical spark in his ears and mouth. he stood like a brick for a moment because this was the first time you said anything to him. everyone had told you previously not to bother him and you did, they also told you not to mess up his coffee—always the same, and you did.
“the regular?” you tried.
simon nodded, then opened his mouth closing it again. “ah...yes, the regular.”
since it was a new dawn of new beginnings, you made his drink just he liked but smiled around the words and asked him. “So, what's your—”
“Simon.”
while you already knew his name from the card, but it was nice to hear him say it. he sounded exactly like he looked—but more fucking sexy.
You looped the 'o' towards 'n' feeling at once very much about improving handwriting. “Actually...” fuck, you couldn't believe you were doing this, “Uhm, you look like my first husband.”
simon's whole face shifted so much that you got anxious the way his eyes shone. Nerves popped out on his thick neck, and his arms flexed massively when he put hands in his leather jacket.
He stared, and you shockingly placed the coffee cup losing all your whimsy at once.
“So ya’ ere married.” simon said, all resigned and heavy and mysteriously dangerous.
“NO!” you explained, “Its a...it's a pickup line. I say 'oh woah you look like my second husband' and then you say 'oh how many husbands you got?' and then say I say haha, I never got married.”
You felt wild and erratic, feeling three heartbeat in one thumb, breathing hard then you swallowed, “Got it?”
it was a moment later that you realised this was how it must feel looking at the sun and not getting torn; simon smiled. a soft curl of his lips, a light trinkling around his iris, warm glow settling on his cheeks—impossiblily maddening, but a smile.
“how many husbands do you have?” he asked, very sincerely for an ordeal of playful pickup lines would allow.
all breath was knocked out of you, left with giddy anticipation and confetti, “I..I have never been married.”
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
The first time Simon sees you, you’re halfway up a mechanic’s chest and tearing him to pieces.
“You had one job,” you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. “One. And you still managed to screw it up so badly I’m wondering if you did it on purpose.”
The man—built, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerve—doesn’t even try to argue.
Because you don’t let him.
You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like you’re staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.
“I don’t care what rank you think protects you,” you continue, quieter now—worse, somehow. “If that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.”
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
A few heads turn. No one interferes.
From across the hangar, Ghost watches.
Still.
Silent.
Hooked.
There’s something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war don’t leave a man right. But this—this sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like they’re nothing—
Christ.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
You don’t even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like he’s already beneath you.
“Fix it,” you say flatly. “Or get replaced.”
Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.
Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.
“Who’s that?” Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.
Ghost doesn’t answer right away.
Because he’s still watching you.
Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you don’t hesitate, don’t soften, don’t care.
“…mine.” he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You don’t notice him at first.
Why would you?
He’s just another soldier in a mask, another shadow in a place full of them.
And you don’t waste your time on shadows.
The first time he speaks to you, it’s because you’re arguing again.
“—if you send me that report one more time with missing data, I will assume you’re illiterate and act accordingly.”
“I am your superior—”
“And I do not care,” you cut in instantly. “Fix it.”
There’s a pause.
Then, from behind you—
“Bit harsh, aren’t you?”
You turn.
Slow.
Measured.
Your eyes land on him—tall, broad, skull mask staring back at you like something out of a horror flick.
You don’t flinch.
You don’t hesitate.
You don’t even blink.
“…and you are?” you ask, flat and unimpressed.
Ghost—Simon—feels something snap pleasantly in his chest.
God.
You don’t know him.
You don’t even care.
You’re looking at him like he’s just another problem waiting to be dismissed.
“Ghost.” he says.
You hum, like that means absolutely nothing to you.
“Great,” you reply. “Then you can mind your business, Ghost.”
And you turn your back on him.
Just like that.
He’s done for.
Completely.
Utterly.
Gone.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
It starts small.
He notices things.
The way you take your coffee—black, no sugar, always too hot.
The way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you’re irritated (which is often).
The fact that no one touches you—no casual brushes, no friendly pats on the back—because you’d probably bite their hand off.
Good.
That suits him just fine.
He doesn’t touch you either.
Not yet.
But he stands closer than necessary.
Speaks to you more than he needs to.
Finds excuses.
“You missed a detail in your report.” he tells you once.
You snatch it from his hand, scanning it.
“…no I didn’t.”
“You did.” he replies calmly.
A beat.
You squint at it.
“…oh.”
Silence.
Then you look back at him, narrowing your eyes.
“…don’t get used to being right.”
Ghost feels something dangerously close to a smile pull at his mouth under the mask.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The others notice.
Of course they do.
“L.T.’s gone soft.” Soap whispers one day.
“Not soft..” Gaz mutters back, watching as Ghost silently sets a fresh cup of coffee down beside you before you even ask. “Worse.”
“Obsessed.”
You still don’t give him much.
A glance here. A clipped response there.
Sometimes you let him stand near you without telling him to piss off.
Sometimes.
And for Ghost?
It’s everything.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The shift happens on a bad day.
Everything’s gone wrong.
Reports missing. Equipment delayed. Someone incompetent breathing too close to your oxygen supply.
By the time Ghost finds you, you’re alone—finally—but you’re pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched.
“Problem?” he asks quietly.
“Several,” you snap, not even looking at him. “All fixable if people weren’t useless.”
He hums.
Steps closer.
You don’t tell him to stop.
That’s new.
“They bothering you?” he asks.
You scoff. “They bother me by existing.”
A pause.
Then, softer—sharper in a different way—
“…I don’t need help.”
“I know.” he says.
You finally look at him.
There’s something in your expression—not soft, never that—but tired. Frayed at the edges.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it.”
You stare at him like you’re trying to figure him out.
Like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for.
“…you’re weird.” you decide.
“Been called worse.”
Another pause.
Then you sigh—short, annoyed—and scrub a hand over your face.
“…fine,” you mutter. “You can stay. Just don’t talk.”
Ghost nods his head.
Steps into your space.
Stays.
From then on It’s over for everyone else.
Because Simon Riley—silent, deadly, untouchable Ghost—
is yours.
He brings you coffee without asking.
Stands behind you like a wall when you’re tearing someone apart.
Fixes problems before they reach you.
And if anyone dares to speak to you out of line?
They don’t make that mistake twice.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
One day, you finally ask him.
“Why are you always around?”
He looks at you.
Really looks.
And for a second, something raw slips through the cracks.
“Because I want to be.”
You narrow your eyes.
Suspicious.
“…that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A long pause.
Then—
“…weird..” you repeat.
But you don’t tell him to leave.
And Ghost?
He’s never been so completely, irrevocably owned in his life.
The first time you met him, you didn’t even look where you were going.
That’s what Simon should’ve remember most.
Not the way the hot coffee splashed across his glove and the front of his shirt. Not the sharp jolt of irritation that flared in his chest after a long, exhausting morning. Not even the way the café fell quiet for a second, people turning to stare.
But no.
It was you.
“Oh my gosh—oh my gosh, I’m so, so sorry!”
You had practically bounced backward from the collision, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with horror. You looked like you might cry right there in the middle of the cafe.
Simon had frozen, cup still half-tilted in his hand. Most people, when they saw him—really saw him—reacted differently. Hesitation. Discomfort. Fear.
You didn’t.
You rushed forward instead.
“Are you burned? Please tell me you’re not burned—wait, don’t answer that, I’m gonna fix it!”
Before he could even respond, you were already turning to the counter, fumbling with your purse.
“I’ll buy you another one! And—um—like, a muffin? Or something? Because I feel so bad and you look like you were having a morning and I just ruined it—”
“You didn’t ruin it..” he muttered, voice low and rough.
You paused, glancing back at him, blinking like you hadn’t expected him to speak at all.
“Oh. Well… I still feel like I did.”
There was no fear in your expression. No lingering stare at the mask. No flicker of discomfort.
Just sincerity.
It unsettled him more than the coffee scalding his skin.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You came back with a fresh coffee and a blueberry muffin, carefully balanced on a little tray like it was an offering.
“Peace treaty..” you said, smiling nervously.
Simon stared at it… then at you.
“…You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” you cut in quickly. “Also I already paid, so like, you kinda have to take it..”
A pause.
Then, softer, almost hopeful—
“Can I sit? Just so I know you’re not secretly plotting revenge?”
He let out a quiet huff through his nose. Almost a laugh.
“…Fine.”
You beamed like he’d just given you the best news ever. So you sat.
And talked.
God, you talked.
About everything. The weather. The barista who “definitely had a crush on someone but you couldn’t tell who.” The book you were reading but kept forgetting to finish. The way you couldn’t ever find your favorite shade of lip gloss. How you accidentally mismatched your socks that morning and only realized halfway there.
Simon barely spoke.
But he listened.
Because somehow, in between your rambling and your soft laughter and the way you leaned forward like everything mattered so much—
You never once treated him like he was a broken man.
You looked at him like he was… normal.
Like he was just another man in a coffee shop.
Like he was worth sitting with.
And when you finally glanced at the time and gasped—
“Oh no, I’m so late—I’m the worst—I’m sorry, I have to go!”
—he felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
You stood quickly, hesitated, then gave him a small, sheepish smile.
“I’m really glad I ran into you. Well—not ran into you—but, you know what I mean!”
He did.
“Yeah..” he said quietly. “Me too.”
And then you were gone.
No number.
No name.
Just the memory of you.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
He thought about you for weeks.
Way longer than he should have.
It was stupid, really. He didn’t even know your name. Didn’t know where you worked, what you did, whether you had someone already.
You probably did.
Someone soft. Easy. Safe.
Not him.
It was better that way.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
“Got someone I want you lot to meet.”
Price’s voice cut through the room of the diner, casual as ever. Simon leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, only half-listening.
“My girl’s been nagging me for weeks. Thought I’d give in.”
There were a few teasing remarks thrown around—Soap grinning, Gaz making a comment Simon didn’t bother catching.
Simon didn’t care.
Not until the door opened.
Not until you walked in.
“Oh my gosh—hi!”
The same voice.
The same smile.
The same bright, slightly breathless energy.
Simon went completely still.
You looked around, clearly a little nervous—but excited. Always excited.
And then your gaze landed on him.
Recognition hit instantly.
Your face lit up.
“It’s you!”
You stepped toward him without hesitation, like the room—and everyone in it—didn’t exist.
“The coffee guy!”
Simon stared down at you, something sharp and electric curling in his chest.
“…Didn’t think I’d see you again.” He murmured.
“I didn’t either!” you said, almost laughing. “What are the odds, right?”
“Oh.” Price cut in, tone suddenly tighter. “You two know each other?”
You turned back to him, smiling sweetly.
“Kind of! I ran into him—literally—at a café a few weeks ago.”
Price didn’t smile back.
Instead, his jaw tightened slightly.
“Right.” he said shortly. “Well. Sit down, yeah?”
The shift was subtle.
But Simon noticed.
He noticed the way your smile faltered just a little before you nodded quickly.
“Okay!”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
It didn’t take long.
Simon was good at reading people. He had to be for what they did.
And what he saw made something cold settle deep in his chest.
You loved John Price.
It was obvious.
The way you leaned toward him when he spoke. The way your eyes lit up whenever he acknowledged you. The way you laughed just a little too quickly at things that weren’t really funny.
And Price—
Price barely looked at you.
When he did, it was brief. Dismissive.
“You were late.” he muttered at one point.
“I know, I’m sorry! Traffic was like, insane and I—”
“Doesn’t matter. Just be on time next time.”
Your mouth closed.
“…Okay.”
Later, when you got excited about something—some story about your day—he cut you off with a quiet, irritated—
“We got it.”
And that was that.
You shrank just a little each time.
Still smiling.
Still trying.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
When you excused yourself to the restroom, the room shifted.
Soap leaned back, watching the door swing shut.
“She’s nice.” he said.
Price shrugged, uninterested.
“She’s… convenient.”
Simon’s head tilted slightly.
“…Convenient?”
“Yeah.” Price said bluntly. “Doesn’t ask for much. Easy to keep around.”
Gaz frowned.
“That’s a bit—”
“She knows what this is.” Price cut in. “Not like she’s expecting a ring.”
Simon said nothing.
But something dark stirred under his ribs.
Because no—
You didn’t act like someone who knew.
You acted like someone who hoped.
And that made it worse.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
When you came back, you slipped into your seat like nothing had changed, offering a soft smile.
“Did I miss anything?”
“No.” Price said flatly.
Simon watched you carefully.
The way you still leaned toward him.
The way you still tried.
The way you still looked at him like he was everything.
And something in Simon snapped into place.
Quiet.
Certain.
Possessive.
Price didn’t see you.
Not really.
But Simon did.
He remembered the girl who bought him coffee like it mattered. Who sat with him like he wasn’t something to fear. Who looked at him—and only him—without hesitation.
neighbor!simon riley walking into the wrong apartment
simon was downright beat, another day of extensive labor scratched off the shitty calender on his wall—if he could even make it there. going up the stairs was a challenge he didn't want to face, but the elevators in his building were out of order. steeling himself for the extra ache in his knees with every step, he began his ascent.
it wasn't nearly as bad as he thought when he reached the landing of his floor, trudging his feet along the carpet until he reached his door. a plant in the corner of the hall caught his eye—since when had that gotten there?
he shrugged it off. it was a question for another day because nothing was more important than a fat nap on the couch—too lazy to make it to the bed. he could barely get the key in the door, twisting and turning it with hazy focus before shouldering his way inside.
blasted with warmth and vanilla, simon instantly realized his mistake.
he glanced around, noting the cozy decor and myriad of plants—hanging pots, mini ones on windowsills to big ones scattered in different corners. warm toned lights bathed his skin, lulling him into a sense of calm and clarity. the blankets on the couch did him no favor, practically calling him to stick his face into them.
the sweet scent of fresh-baked goods wafted in his nose, distracting him from the figure that appeared by his side. only having a split second to react to the—naked?—figure wielding a frying pan before everything went black.
simon came to a few minutes later, halfway dragged towards the couch by the same figure that knocked him out cold. jesus. at least now you were clothed. in a robe with a tantalizing amount of skin on display
with a groan, he rubbed his head which prompted you to drop the leg you use to tug him along. a soft gasp of surprise escaped your lips, and you bent at the waist to inspect him.
"simon? what the hell are you doing here? I could've killed you!" a soft, familiar voice fussed, and when his vision unblurred, he was met with the sight of your pretty face.
you weren't exactly simon's neighbor. you lived on the floor directly below his apartment—often complaining about his heavy footsteps. but after warming him up by tons of sweet treats, you two became familiar. he'd return the tupperware with delicious foods, and the trading never ceased. unless he was on a mission—which you quickly learned he was back from.
simon rubbed his head with a grunt. "doubt tha'. fryin' pan's a shit weapon, luv." he drawled.
"says the man laying on the floor after being knocked cold." you hitch a hand on your hip, leg cocked as you stare down at him.
he can almost see directly up your robe, flushing red all over his face as he quickly averts his gaze. not without another peek.
"..." he stays silent for a moment before his muscles go lax. "got me there."
"so why the hell are you in my apartment?"
"thou' it was mine."
your brows furrow, a frown developing on your face. "did you just get back? jesus, you must be exhausted, and a frypan to the head couldn't have helped."
"yer a genius, bird."
"cut the attitude, or I'm kicking you out." you threatened, but it was empty. there's no way you were kicking him out after taking him out with a frying pan. "are you okay, though? like really because that does not look good."
"already achin', can't even tell anythin' worse happened." he's not lying. his entire body suffered the aftermath of his mission. stiff muscles, a headache, and joints that have seen better days. he could barely tell he got smacked in the head.
still, you fuss over him in a way that makes his heart flutter. "let me get ice and something for you to eat while you lay on the couch. would've done it myself, but you weigh a ton." with that, you turn away in a flurry, not wasting a second to take care of the man who broke into your apartment and caught a glimpse of you naked.
"way to flatter a man." he called back before settling into the plush couch, feeling the soft blanket under his fingertips.
