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Always The Last

Or, Simon “Mr-Steal-Your-Girl” Riley; Simon “if you won’t take care of your girl, I’ll do it myself” Riley

Part One | Part Two

Ghost knows it’s you the second he sees you.

He isn’t looking for you. He’s never allowed himself that. He’s doing what he always does in public: sitting back from the table, spine to a solid surface, letting the others make the noise while he watches the room. Exits. Hands. Posture. Glassware. The usual.

Then the door opens and something in him goes very, very still.

You step in out of the streetlight, head ducking automatically, like you’re apologizing for existing.

He knows it’s you the way a sentence knows its missing word. Knows you before his brain catches up to catalog the evidence: the tilt of your head, the careful way you hold yourself at the edges of spaces, the specific quality of your stillness that he’s constructed from stolen glances at texts and the shape of Price’s voice when he says she.

There’s no doubt in him. You match the dossier in his head too perfectly.

You’re not the exuberant weather system sitting a few seats down from him. You don’t move like you own the air. You move like you’re grateful the air lets you pass through.

Big, careful eyes. Thumbs hooked nervous in the strap of your bag. The way you hover just inside the threshold for half a breath, like you’re giving the world a chance to tell you that you’ve misread the room before you commit.

Yeah. It’s you.

You’re smaller than he imagined. Or maybe the world is just larger around you, the way it gets around people who’ve learned to make themselves fit in the margins. You’re wearing something simple: a coat that’s seen a few winters, boots with salt stains at the ankles. There’s nothing remarkable about you in the way the woman beside Price is remarkable, no shine or weight to pull the room’s attention.

But still, Simon can’t look away.

Your face does something that stops his heart. It opens. That’s the only word for it. You step inside and your expression unfolds, and the love that moves across your features is so naked, so undefended, that he feels it land in his chest like a bullet he didn’t know was coming.

You’re looking at Price. You’re happy.

The dog in his ribs whimpers, tucks its tail between its legs.

You take another step, already smiling, mouth shaping around a word that hasn’t arrived yet, and then your eyes track past Price’s shoulder to the woman tucked against him. To the proprietary ease of her posture. To the hand she’s resting on his forearm like it belongs there.

Laswell is talking, her voice cutting through the noise, ”…how did Price propose then? Go on, tell us…”

Ghost’s jaw locks. He knows what’s coming before it lands. He can see the trajectory, the inevitability of it, the way something thrown, arcs before it drops.

The woman beside Price, his fiancée- Jesus Christ- lifts her hand again and the ring catches the light. “He did it in the garden,” she says, laughing. “With this ridiculous bouquet- ”

The change is immediate. Seismic.

Your face doesn’t crumble. It empties. All that light, that unguarded joy, just…drains. Like watching a glass tip and spill in slow motion, inevitable and obscene. Your eyebrows pull together, confusion first, then something sharper. Your lips part but nothing comes out.

He watches you see the ring and you go so still he could mark the exact second your nervous system shuts down everything that isn’t critical.

Freeze response. Textbook.

Your head shakes. Just once. A tiny movement, barely there, the kind of denial that happens below conscious thought. No. This isn’t real. I’m seeing it wrong.

But you’re not.

The table erupts in warm, affectionate chaos. Someone claps. Someone else catcalls. Price ducks his head with that sheepish grin he gets, the one that says aw shucks while his ego preens.

Ghost doesn’t move. Can’t. His body has turned to stone.

Because he’s watching you die standing up.

Your hand comes up to your chest, slow, uncertain, like you’re checking for a wound you can’t quite feel yet. Your mouth shapes a word he can’t hear. Could be no. Could be please. Could be nothing at all, just your body trying to make sound while your brain goes to static.

You’re shaking your head again, sharper now, faster, and he knows that gesture too. He’s seen it in mirrors at night when sleep won’t come and the past gets loud. This can’t be happening. I’m wrong. I misunderstood.

But you didn’t.

He sees the exact moment it locks into place. When the confusion hardens into certainty and the certainty detonates. Your shoulders curl inward like you’ve taken a hit. Your breath catches, he sees it in the hitch of your chest, the way your lips press bloodless.

Your eyes sweep the table one more time. Desperate. Searching for an exit that doesn’t exist, some explanation that will reorganize the world back into something that makes sense.

There isn’t one.

Price is laughing. He’s laughing, hand on his fiancée’s knee, looking every inch a man who’s chosen well and knows it. He doesn’t see you. Doesn’t feel the weight of your gaze, the freight of your devastation landing on him like ash.

He has no idea you’re there.

The dog in Ghost’s chest bares its teeth. His hands curl into fists beneath the table, slow and deliberate, nails biting into his palms to keep the rest of him locked down. The want to move, to stand, to cross the room, to step between you and this, is so violent it tastes sour.

But he doesn’t. Can’t. Not here. Not now. Not without a plan.

You step backward. It’s not a decision, just a body trying to escape a trap. The bell jingles again, thinner this time, and you’re gone.

Just like that.

The door swings shut and you’re erased. The table doesn’t notice. Price doesn’t notice. The noise swells back into the gap you left, laughter and clinking glasses and someone ordering another round, and the world continues like you were never there at all.

Ghost stares at the door. His pulse is a hammer. His breathing is too controlled, the kind of controlled that comes before violence, and he has to force his hands to unclench one finger at a time.

He thinks about you walking out into the cold with your chest caved in and no one to catch you. He thinks about the text you probably sent hours ago- have a good night, be safe- still sitting in Price’s phone, unread or ignored. He thinks about you going home to an empty flat that still smells like him, still has his coffee mug in the sink, still holds the shape of a life you thought you were building.

He thinks about the way you looked at Price before you saw the ring. Like he was the sun and you’d been cold your whole life.

The woman beside Price leans in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, and Ghost has to look away before the leash snaps.

“You alright, mate?” Soap’s voice, closer than expected.

Ghost blinks. Turns his head a fraction. His face is a mask. Always is. “Fine.”

Soap’s eyes narrow, because Soap is a pain in the arse who notices things, but he doesn’t push. Just claps Ghost on the shoulder and turns back to the conversation.

Ghost doesn’t hear another word.

He’s already making lists. Cataloging. Planning.

He waits exactly forty seven seconds after you vanish into the night. Enough time for the door to stop swinging, for the laughter inside to swallow your absence whole, for his own pulse to settle into a low drum.

“Smoke,” he says to the table, the word a flat stone dropped into the river of noise. It’s not a request. His chair scrapes back, a sound like a bone resetting.

Soap glances up, eyes sharp, but Ghost is already turning, a wall of shadow detaching itself from the light. He doesn’t look at Price. Doesn’t dare. The image of your emptying face is branded behind his eyelids, and if he looks at the man now, the leash will snap. He pushes through the door, and the cold air slaps him.

He spots you immediately, halfway down the block, a small, hunched silhouette moving like a leaf caught in a drain’s current. Not running. Drifting. Defeated already.

He follows. Not close. He keeps a buffer of shadow and pavement between you, a man who knows how to tail a mark without becoming a presence. Your hand is pressed to your sternum, as if holding your heart in place. He matches his stride to the limp rhythm of yours, a silent, stalking guardian.

You find the bus shelter. A cage of damp metal and streaked glass. You sink onto the bench, folding in on yourself, and he watches from the mouth of an alley, a statue in a bomber jacket. You don’t cry. You just sit, staring at nothing, while the city peels its glowing advertisements around you. You look like the ghost of your own life.

The dog in his ribs whines, pressing against the cage of bone.

He moves then, not toward you directly, but at an angle, as if his destination just happens to be the same slice of wet pavement. His boots are quiet on the concrete.

He stops a polite ten feet away, leaning against the shelter’s side, his broad back to the brick. He doesn’t look at you. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled pack, taps one free.

The scratch of the lighter is loud in the damp quiet. The first drag burns, sharp and familiar. He exhales a plume of smoke that the wind carries away instantly.

Only then does he turn his head, just enough to see you in his periphery. You’re watching the coal of his cigarette, a tiny, dying star in the gloom.

“Rough night?” he asks, his voice a low rasp, sandpaper over gravel. It’s not really a question.

You flinch, just a little, as if remembering you’re not alone in the universe. You look at him, your eyes huge and liquid in the reflected streetlight. You don’t answer.

He taps another cigarette from the pack, holds it out between two fingers. An offering. A bridge. “Looks like y’need it more than I do.”

A beat of hesitation. Then your hand, pale and trembling slightly, reaches out. Your fingers brush his as you take it. Cold skin. A static shock jumping the gap.

He leans in with the lighter, cupping the flame against the wind. In its sudden, intimate glow, he sees everything: the salt tracks you haven’t wiped, the bruised look under your eyes, the way your lips are bitten raw.

You inhale, cough a little, then settle. The smoke leaves your mouth in a shaky sigh. “Thanks.”

He grunts, shifts his weight, goes back to looking at the street. “Man trouble,” he states. Another non question.

A wet, humorless sound escapes you. It’s almost a laugh. “Something like that.” You take another drag, your voice softening to a whisper the wind almost steals. “Found out my boyfriend is engaged. To someone else. Tonight. In there.” You jerk your chin back toward the pub, a world away.

He lets the silence sit. Lets the words curdle in the air between you. You stare at the glowing end of your cigarette. “It’s like… you know when you’re a kid, and you’re always the last one picked? For everything? You think, maybe as an adult, it’ll be different. That someone will finally… choose you.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “Turns out, you can be chosen for the team and still not be on the roster.”

The metaphor is perfect. It lands in his chest.

He thinks of the dossier in his mind, the quiet life you’ve built, the way Price talked about you like a precious, secret thing. A thing he kept in a drawer.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Ghost asks. His tone is neutral, like he’s asking for the time.

You laugh again, a hollow, broken sound. “Nothing. I’m not… I’m a coward. I’ll probably just… go home. Delete his number. Try to forget how stupid I was.” You say it like you’re reciting a punishment you deserve.

The dog snarls. Coward. He shoves it down, muzzles it. The word doesn’t fit you. What he saw in your face wasn’t cowardice. It was annihilation.

“Could do nothing,” he muses, taking a slow drag. “Clean. Easy. Lets him win.”

You look at him, curious now through the pain.

“Could also key his car,” he continues, voice still that low, casual rumble. “Sugar in the gas tank. Classic. Practical. A nuisance.”

A startled, wet sniff from you. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“Could tell his fiancé,” he offers, watching a taxi splash through a puddle. “Post the evidence online. Burn both his worlds down in the same match.” He says it with no malice, just the calm assessment of a strategist.

“That’s… violent,” you whisper.

“Is it?” He finally turns his head fully to look at you. In the half light, his eyes are dark pits, but his expression is oddly still. “He made a promise to her. He made a home with you. He’s living in the lie. You’d just be turning on the lights.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, then look away, shaking your head. “I couldn’t.”

He shrugs, a massive, slow movement. “Then there’s the fun option.”

“Fun?”

“Send him a wedding gift. From the two of you. Something tasteful, but personal. A set of knives with your initials engraved. A photo album of your best moments. Let him explain that to her on the morning of.” He says it so deadpan, so utterly serious, that it takes you a second.

Then you make a sound, a choked, surprised giggle that bubbles up through the tears and the hurt. It’s raw and real and it hooks something deep in his gut, yanking hard. The dog in his ribs doesn’t just sit up; it rolls over, exposes its belly. The feeling is terrifying and warm.

“You’re terrible,” you say, but you’re smiling, just a little. A fragile, broken thing, but a smile.

“I’ve been told,” he murmurs, and the corner of his own mouth- usually a grim, flat line- ticks upward for a millisecond. A rare event.

You finish your cigarette, stubbing it out on the wet metal bench. “I should… go. Try to walk this off.” You stand, unsteady.

He nods, straightening from the wall. “Keep the pack.” He holds out the crumpled box. “Might need another.”

You hesitate, then take it. Your fingers don’t brush this time. “Thank you. For the smoke. And the… talk. And the terrible, terrible ideas.”

“Any time.” The words are gravel in his mouth. He means them more than you can know.

You offer one last, wan smile, then turn, shoving the cigarette pack into your coat pocket. He watches you walk away, your shoulders a little less hunched, your steps a little more certain. You don’t look back.

He stays until you turn the corner and are swallowed by the night; only then does he pull out his phone. The screen illuminates his impassive face. A simple mapping app opens. A single, pulsing red dot appears, moving slowly away from him. South. Toward the river- your aunt’s house, he’ll later find out.

He’d palmed the wafer thin tracker while lighting your cigarette, slipping it into the cellophane of the pack with a sleight of hand born of a thousand darker operations. It’s not about trust. It’s about logistics, about needing to know where you are, filling in the empty blanks in the dossier in his mind, starting out with where you live and what your name is.

It’s a plan beginning to breathe.

He drops his own cigarette, grinds it under his heel, and melts back into the shadows from which he came. The pub, Price, the laughter- it’s all background noise now. His focus is on the glowing dot, on the woman carrying his silence in her pocket, walking home to a ruin that is no longer hers alone.

***

The information comes to him in clean, orderly packets, filed away in the silent vault of his mind. He learned your street, your flat number, the fact your window faced a brick wall but you kept a pot of resilient herbs on the sill anyway. He learned your name- something that made the dog in his ribs wag its tail when he imagined attaching the name Riley to it. He learned your work schedule, the grocery store you preferred, the route you took on evening walks when the silence in the flat grew too thick to breathe.

Every new detail was a treasure offered to the dog in his ribs. You hum when you cooks. Tail thump. You rereads the same fantasy novels when you’re sad. A happy whine. You still haven't changed the locks. A low, protective growl that vibrated through his sternum. The dossier grew, rich and textured, a map of a life built in quiet corners. The lead in his chest grew taut, a constant, physical pull in your direction.

For six weeks, he maintained the perimeter. He was a shadow in a parked car three streets over, a silhouette in a opposite building’s window at dawn, a presence felt but never seen. He watched you move through the world with that careful, apologetic grace, your loneliness a scent he could now trace on the wind. The dog paced, impatient, nails clicking against the bone of his resolve. Close enough to watch, but not to touch.

The rule was beginning to chafe.

The break came on a Tuesday, damp and grey. The dog tugged, hard and insistent, a final, definitive yank on the leash. Enough.

He planned it like a mission: minimal variables, clear objective. The cafe you visited every Tuesday after your therapy appointment (he knew about that, too). He arrived first, chose a table with a clear view of the door and a solid wall at his back. He held a newspaper he didn’t read, a prop in a play with an audience of one.

His stomach flipped with nerves when you entered, shaking rain from your hair, that same slight hesitation at the threshold. Your eyes scanned the room, passed over him, then snapped back, and his heart ricocheted off his rib cage. A flicker of recognition, then confusion. The man from the bus shelter. The one with the terrible ideas and the quiet voice.

He let a moment pass, then looked up as if sensing a gaze. He gave a small, neutral nod- I see you, but I won’t intrude- and returned to his paper. The choice was yours, even if his throat suddenly felt dry and his palms sweaty.

He felt the moment you decided. A soft inhale, then the shuffle of your boots on the tile. You appeared at the edge of his table, holding your mug like a shield.

“Hi,” you said, your voice a little rusty from disuse. “Um. From the… the rainy night.”

He lowered the paper slowly. “Right.” He gestured to the empty chair opposite him with his chin. “Join me. If you like.”

You did, lowering yourself into the seat as if it might collapse, and something loosened under his skin. A few minutes of brittle silence passed, filled by the hiss of the espresso machine and the murmur of other lives.

“So,” he began, stirring his black coffee with a deliberate slowness so you wouldn’t see the way his fingers trembled. “Did you ever key the car?”

The question was so blunt, so devoid of social preamble, that it startled a genuine laugh from you. It was a better sound than he’d imagined. Clearer. “No. No keying.”

“Sugar?”

“No sugar.”

“Photo album?”

You shook your head, a real smile touching your lips. “I’m afraid I went with the coward’s option. Nothing. Radio silence.” You looked into your tea. “Deleted everything. Pretended he was a ghost.”

He’s the ghost, Ghost thought, the irony a bitter pill. I’m the one who’s real. “Clean break,” he said instead. “Sensible.”

“It feels less sensible and more… pathetic.” You sighed, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “I just couldn’t face it. The drama. The confrontation. Seeing him… with her.” You glanced up at him, your big, careful eyes searching his. “Does that make me weak?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, absolute. “It makes you someone who’s had to swallow too many broken things already. Your throat gets sore.” He’d meant to say something less revealing, but the truth slipped out, sandpapered raw.

You stared at him, and for a terrifying second, he thought he’d shown too much of the dog’s teeth. But then your shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. As if he’d named a pain you thought was yours alone.

He steered the conversation then, with the subtle skill of a man used to directing focus away from himself. He asked about your job, the parts you liked. He asked about your hobbies. He asked what you were reading.

And you, trained by a lifetime of being the listener, kept trying to hand the spotlight back. “What about you? What do you do?” you’d ask.

“Contract work. Boring,” he’d deflect. “Tell me about the book. The dog in the story- is it loyal?”

“You travel a lot?” you’d probe later.

“Here and there. You said you walk by the river… is it better in the morning or at night?”

He was a wall, gently but firmly reflecting every question back to you. It was a novel experience. You’d start a sentence, pause, expecting to be interrupted, to be tuned out. He’d just wait, his gaze steady and patient, until you found the words again. He watched you slowly unfold, like one of the flowers he’d seen you buy from a market vendor (he knew about that, too). Tentative, colorful, surprising yourself.

You talked about your fear of large parties, your secret love for terrible baking shows, the way you wanted to learn how to fix a dripping tap but didn’t know where to start. Ordinary things. Sacred things. The dog in his chest was lying on its back, paws in the air, utterly disarmed.

The cafe emptied and refilled around you. The light through the window shifted from grey to a pale, watery gold. You were mid-sentence, explaining why you preferred pencils to pens, when you glanced at the clock on the wall and gasped.

“Oh my god. It’s been three hours.” You looked at him, mortified. “I’ve been talking for three hours. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He meant it. They were the three most peaceful hours of his life. A silent, sun dappled clearing in the middle of a war zone. “I wasn’t keeping track.”

“I should… I should let you go.” You began gathering your things, flustered.

He saw the opening, a door about to swing shut. The dog whimpered. Now.

“Before you do,” he said, his voice deliberately even, unconcerned. “Might be good to have a number. In case you ever decide to pursue one of those terrible ideas. Or… need a second opinion on a dripping tap.”

You froze, your hands on your scarf. You looked at him- really looked- searching for the angle, the hunter’s glint you were so accustomed to. You found only steady, calm patience. A wall, yes, but one you could lean against.

A slow, shy smile bloomed on your face. It was the most beautiful weapon he’d ever been struck by. “Okay,” you said softly.

He handed you his phone and watched you type in your number. Your name appeared on the screen, that soft beautiful name, now in his official possession. The leash in his chest went slack with a profound, almost painful relief.

He saved it, then sent a quick, generic text to your phone so you’d have his. Your pocket buzzed. The connection was made. A live wire, humming between you.

“I should…” you said again, standing.

He stood with you, a courtesy that made you blink. “Take care of yourself,” he said.

“You too. And… thank you. For the company.”

He nodded, watching you walk out into the fading afternoon light. You didn’t hunch your shoulders. You didn’t look at the ground. You held your head a little higher.

He sat back down, alone at the table, and allowed himself one deep, shuddering breath. In the quiet of his ribs, the dog was ecstatic, spinning in happy, frantic circles. He placed a mental hand on its head, not to chastise, but to soothe.

Easy, he thought, a silent command to the wild joy within him. Patience. We have her number now. We have time.

Don’t scare her off.

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