Simon "ghost" riley - the time he didn't come home.
1. He left without saying a word.
No note. No glance back. Just a mission brief and boots on pavement. You didn’t realize it at the time, but it wasn’t just another job. It was a goodbye he couldn’t bear to speak.
2. He told himself he was doing you a kindness.
That disappearing would spare you the fallout. The grief. The burden of trying to love someone who doesn't know how to stay... That's why.
3. Every mile he traveled away from you made him feel heavier.
Not freer. Not safer. Just… emptier.
4. The mission ended, but he didn’t go home.
He lingered in a safehouse. Days passed in silence. Ghost stared at his phone like it owed him something he couldn’t name.
5. He thought he was protecting you.
Until the loneliness cut so deep, he realized: he wasn’t shielding you. He was punishing himself.
6. It was your silence that broke him.
No pleading texts. No angry voicemails. Just nothing. For the first time, he had no proof that you'd still be there if he came back.
7. The turning point came in a moment so small, it should’ve meant nothing.
A stranger’s kindness. A familiar scent. A memory of your voice saying something stupid and warm. And he broke.
8. When he finally walked through your door...
He looked like a ghost in more ways than one. Hollowed out. Prepared for anger—or worse, indifference. But he showed up anyway.
9. You didn’t scream. You didn’t run. You just stared — then opened your arms.
And he hesitated... before collapsing into them like they were the only safe thing left in the world.
Because even if you don't know it, they were. You were.
10. He still doesn’t understand why you forgave him.
But he doesn’t waste it.
These days, when he leaves, he says goodbye.
And when he returns, he always comes back to you.
I'm not convinced by this post, I feel like it's not good :(
He’s used to fighting through tiredness, but sometimes, it hits him all at once. Turning sharp, calculated movements into slow, heavy ones.
2. He gets quiet—softer.
The usual edge in his voice fades. His responses are shorter, more subdued. He’s not cold, just… running low.
3. He melts into warmth.
When sleep takes over, he unconsciously shifts closer. The warmth of a blanket, your touch—anything that anchors him.
4.He’s harder to wake when he’s truly asleep.
It takes a lot to get him to rest, but when he does, he’s out. His body shuts down completely, recharging after weeks of pushing past exhaustion.
5. You notice the tension fade from his muscles.
When he sleeps, the usual rigidity is gone. His shoulders aren’t squared. His jaw isn’t clenched. For once, he looks at peace.
6. If you move away, he reacts—without waking.
A subconscious pull... his fingers finding yours, a slight shift toward the warmth he just lost. Even in sleep, part of him refuses to let go.
7. Mumbling in his sleep happens more than he admits.
It’s rare, but when exhaustion really takes over, quiet words escape him. Half-formed thoughts. Echoes of memories. Maybe even your name.
8. His mask comes off when he’s completely drained.
Not because he’s comfortable—just because *he physically can’t keep it on anymore*. If he’s sleeping deeply, it’s off.
9. If nightmares hit, he doesn’t always wake up fully—just enough to tense up.
You feel it in his breathing, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly. But if you soothe him—whisper something, brush your fingers over his—he relaxes again.
10. The first time he wakes up next to you, rested, he doesn’t know what to do.
He’s used to waking up alone, always alert, always ready. But now? He’s just there. With you. And for a moment, that’s enough.
You’ve always wondered, honestly... How can you love the coldness of something so unimportant? How can it be so cold and yet burn at the same time if you hold it for a long time?
Well, that was how your relationship with Simon Riley worked.
Simon Riley. The TF-141 lieutenant.
The one who seemed like the strongest, toughest, coldest lieutenant, but at the same time, melted under your touch.
Just like the snow.
---
October 9th.
—
It’s been a month since you and your husband, Simon, moved to the Scottish Highlands.
Retirement wasn't on his plans — not even close. The Task Force still called, and he still answered. But between deployments, this place was your quiet in the storm.
You lived in a dark, wooden house decorated with huge windows that offered a view of the forest.
Now, it's snowy.
But your husband? He isn't there.
---
October 8th.
—
A day before he left, you sat on the bed, tears quietly slipping down your cheeks as you watched him pack.
He had a mission the next morning — and the thought that he might not come back was enough to unravel you.
His hands moved automatically, stuffing things into the suitcase, trying not to look at your eyes — those eyes.
The same ones that always brimmed with pain each time you had to say goodbye, and with joy every time he returned, exhausted but alive.
You didn’t want him to ignore you. Not really.
But you knew he couldn’t afford to forget anything — not when his life depended on it.
So you sat there in silence, helping him double-check each item, even though your heart was somewhere else entirely.
He zipped the suitcase shut with that same finality that always made your stomach twist.
But instead of walking away, he sat down next to you. The mattress dipped under his weight.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just took off his gloves and reached for your hand, cold fingers brushing yours. You let him take it.
Outside, it had started snowing again. Slowly, silently — like the world itself was holding its breath.
It always snowed the night before he left.
Always.
His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles, as if memorizing them. And then, just barely above a whisper:
“I’ll come back.”
You didn’t answer, you didn’t have to.
Because you knew it was true. He always returned to you.
So you waited. You waited for him to come back.
---
October 16th.
—
A week.
A week had passed since he left, and you swore it had been the longest week of your life. Well, to be honest, you always thought that whenever he went on long missions abroad.
It was 4 a.m. now, and you really couldn’t sleep. Sleeping was a pain in the ass for you when your husband was out there fighting for his life.
You lay under the blankets on your shared bed, an emptiness in your chest you just couldn’t shake off.
You had tried everything possible to relax: made yourself a tea, even took some of the pills that sometimes helped Simon sleep... but nothing worked.
So you ended up sprawled across the bed, sheets wrapped around your body as you imagined him lying there beside you. Every time your eyes watered, you thought about how he would tease you if he knew you were crying over him. The thought made you smile — and kept the tears from spilling.
But you had to rest. It was necessary if you wanted to make it to work tomorrow. It was still Thursday...
By 5 a.m., you finally drifted off.
You slept straight through until 9, when a sound woke you. A familiar one. Was that the door opening?
—
Ha, you wish... It was just your alarm. Time to get up for work.
A groan slipped from your lips as you smacked the phone shut.
You dragged yourself to the kitchen, made some toast, and started getting ready. It was going to be another long day without him.
You freshened up a bit to hide the bags under your eyes — you looked like a damn vampire right now. Hair a mess, still in your husband’s oversized white t-shirt and a pair of his black boxers.
You checked your phone — 9:30 a.m. No messages. No missed calls. Not that you expected any.
You pulled on a pair of jeans, a simple black tank top, and then his hoodie. It still smelled faintly of him — smoke, soap, and something colder. The scent hit you harder than you wanted to admit.
Your job had a dress code, and you had to stick to it — unfortunately.
When you were ready, you put on your makeup, staring at your reflection. For a second, you almost laughed, imagining Simon behind you, leaning on the doorframe, telling you you didn’t need any of it.
At least now you didn’t look like a vampire. That was progress.
—
By 10:15 a.m., you headed out. You had to be at work by 11, but since you lived on the outskirts of the city, it was a long commute.
The hours dragged. Work felt mechanical — answering questions, forcing smiles, moving through the motions. By the time you got home that evening, you were drained.
You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag by the door, and were halfway to the kitchen when your phone buzzed.
Your heart stopped.
Unknown number.
But you knew.
You answered on the second ring.
“Hello?” your voice cracked.
There was silence. A breath.
Then his voice — low, rough, but unmistakably his.
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
Your throat tightened. A laugh broke out of you, half relief, half despair.
“Barely. Thanks for asking, by the way.”
You could almost hear the faintest smile in his exhale.
“Good girl. Try harder tonight. I’ll be back before you know it.”
And just like that, the line went dead.
You stared at the phone, your chest aching but lighter than it had been in a week.
---
October 20th.
—
It’s snowing again. Of course it is.
You stand by the window, his hoodie wrapped around you, dogtags resting against your collarbone — cold against warm skin. You’ve worn them since he left; they’re your anchor, your proof that he’ll come back like he always does.
The world outside is white and silent. You breathe fog against the glass. For a moment, you close your eyes and imagine him there — the weight of his arm around you, the way he tucks his chin against the top of your head.
Then, a sound.
Footsteps.
Slow, heavy. Real.
Your eyes snap open. You don’t think. You just run.
The door swings open before you even reach it, snow and wind spilling inside.
He’s there.
Simon.
Cold, soaked, tired — but alive. His mask is off this time, eyes soft in the half-light. He drops his bag, doesn’t even speak. You throw yourself into him, and his arms close around you instantly, crushing you against him.
He buries his face in your neck, breath trembling.
“Told you I’d come back,” he mutters, voice muffled by your hair.
You can’t speak. You just nod against him, fingers fisting in the back of his jacket. The dogtags press between your chest and his, metal biting through warmth, grounding you both in the only truth that matters — he’s here.
Later, the two of you end up tangled and naked in bed. You’ve both shed the cold and the layers of the outside world. His hand rests against your waist, yours still clutching the tags against your heart.
“You kept them,” he murmurs, half-asleep.
You smile faintly. “Always.”
Outside, snow keeps falling — quiet, endless. His breathing slows, syncing with yours until the rhythm feels like one.
The tags clink softly when you shift closer, and you press a kiss to his chest, just above where his heart beats steady beneath your palm.
And for the first time in weeks, you finally sleep.
Snow keeps falling.
Soft, fragile, fleeting...
the kind of cold that burns,
the kind that hurts because it’s real.
And somewhere between the hush of winter and the warmth of his arms,
you finally understand why you love it so much.
Tags: @mer-not-man 🦇🫶🏻🤍
Yeeey its my birhday!!!!! I'm now officially of legal age 🤺
