Mean little thing.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
And he’s never been happier about it.
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