Summary: Simon “Ghost” Riley comes home bruised and bone-tired, but in your arms, he remembers what peace feels like.
CW: I wrote this with fem!reader in mind but don’t think I used any identifying pronouns (lettme know if I’m wrong!), mentions of injury (post-mission), super disgustingly cute and fluffy!!
I’m obsessed with the COD men and finally braved writing one for the first time!! Pls let me know if you want to see more of them ;))
Dividers by the wonderful @strangergraphics
You froze mid-step in the kitchen, still holding your mug. The world outside was quiet, thin rain whispering against the windows. Your pulse tripped over itself.
Another knock.
Then— his voice.
“Open up, love. S’alright. It’s me.”
The mug clattered into the sink, half-full tea blooming like a bruise in the water. You didn’t bother with slippers— just ran.
And there he was.
Simon stood on the threshold, massive and shadowed, the porch light catching the edge of his jaw beneath the black of his balaclava. The rain had soaked his shoulders, beads of water tracing down his gear. He looked exhausted. Alive. Real.
“Christ,” you breathed. “Simon—“
He didn’t say a word, just stepped forward and caught you in his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely draw a breath. He smelled of metal, smoke, and the long miles between them.
“Didn’t tell me you were comin’ home,” you whispered against his chest.
“Wanted t’see your face,” he murmured, voice thick with that slow Northern lilt. “Proper surprise, yeah?”
“Nearly gave me a heart attack, you absolute bastard.”
He huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through you. “Aye, but worth it. Missed you somethin’ fierce.”
You stayed tangled in the doorway, rain sneaking past his boots, your fingers curled into the back of his jacket. When he finally pulled back, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness in his shoulders.
“You’re hurt,” you said softly.
“Just a scratch.”
“Simon.”
He sighed. “Alright, maybe. But I’m here, yeah? That’s what matters.”
You led him inside, hand never leaving his. He dropped his gear by the door like he was shedding a skin, all the weight and blood of the last few months left in a neat pile on the mat. When the mask came off, your heart stuttered.
His face was tired, beautiful in its ruin. A bruise saw high on his cheekbone; a cut ghosted across his lips. But his eyes— those soft brown eyes— were gentle, full of something fragile.
“You look wrecked,” you whispered.
He smiled, lazy and crooked. “Feel worse. But you— bloody hell, you look good. Always do.”
“Flatterer.”
“Truth-teller, love.”
You fished over him until he caved— bandaged, warm washcloth, tea. He sat on the couch while you cleaned him up, his long legs sprawled, eyes following your every move. The lamp threw a honeyed glow across the room, soft and slow, and when you leaned close to dab his cheek, he caught your hand.
“Missed this,” he said quietly. “Missed you.”
You smiled. “You say that like you didn’t talk my ear off over the phone almost every night.”
He chuckled, deep and rough. “Not the same. Can’t kiss you over the line, can I?”
Your breath hitched just a little, and his grin turned wicked.
“Go on, then,” you said, eyes narrowing playfully. “You’ve got your chance.”
He didn’t need more permission than that. His hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before he kissed you— soft at first, like he was remembering how. Then deeper, steadier.
When he pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours. “You smell like home,” he murmured. “Like I’ve been fightin’ just to get to this.”
You laughed quietly, fingers tracing his jaw. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I absolutely will.”
He laughed then— a real laugh, the kind that cracked open the exhaustion and let the man beneath it breathe.
You ended up curled on the couch, your legs tucked under his, his head half-resting against your shoulder. The rain kept on, steady and soft.
“You stayin’?” You asked sleepily.
He looked down at you, eyes warm. “Not goin’ anywhere, love. Not for a long while.”
Your fingers brushed over his hand, where old scars met new. “Good.”
He pressed a kiss to your head. “Y’know,” he said, words fading into a chuckle, “you make the best bloody tea when I’m half-dead. Think I’ll keep gettin’ myself shot just for the service.”
You smacked his chest, laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm. You love it.”
“I do,” you said softly. “God help me, I really do.”
He smiled against your temple, and for the first time in months, the world felt whole again.
