masterlist simon riley masterlist
summary: what starts as a simple volunteer letter to a soldier, turns into a connection that grows deeper with every word.
A/N: we are ignoring mistakes today, wasn't able to reread because I caught a cold- well (and I kinda used two lines/aspects of the hamilton musical, maybe someone will find it lmao)
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
I signed up for this volunteer program that matches civilians with deployed soldiers. I'm not sure whether this will reach you on a good or bad day, but perhaps it will serve as a little distraction from the noise around you. I work at a local library, which is quiet enough to hear a mouse contemplate its life choices.
My days are pretty boring. I enjoy books, maybe drink a little too much coffee, take long walks around the neighborhood, and spend time with a little cat. You can share whatever you like about your day or your favorite things.
A week later, there’s a small envelope tucked between junk mail and your grocery coupons. His handwriting is neat and almost stubbornly precise, the kind that suggests he’s used to writing quickly, maybe under pressure. You open it at the kitchen counter with your fingers shaking a little.
Thank you for your letter. You sound… normal. Normal is good. That’s hard to remember out here. I don’t talk much about myself, mostly because I blend in until I don’t. But letters stay in your hands longer than people do.
You can call me Ghost. That’s what most people here know me by. The real name can wait.
Music helps. Anything with a beat I can tap my fingers to. I read when I can, even if it’s just a few pages before lights out. Coffee’s a necessity. Your cat sounds like he has more personality than half the people I serve with.
You read it twice, then a third time, because something in his tone sits warm in your chest. He doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t dance around anything. He just… answers you.
You write back that evening, telling him your cat knocked over a stack of biographies and then acted like the dog of your parents did it.
After that, the letters become part of your routine, showing up like quiet little anchors in your week.
I laughed too hard at the book avalanche you described. For the record, the dog is clearly innocent. I’m starting a notebook just for these letters, nothing official, just scraps of rain hitting the roof, a song stuck in my head, or the kind of coffee that tastes like disappointment. Not exciting stuff. But it helps.
You start to recognize the shape of his sentences, the slight slant of his handwriting, the way he circles around something when he’s not ready to touch it yet.
Heard a song today that didn’t remind me of anything specific...just… something. A feeling I couldn’t name. Does that ever happen to you? Some tiny thing pulling at you all day for no reason?
Anyway. Hope the week’s treating you gently. Write when you get the chance.
By mid January, you get a letter that makes your stomach drop.
Lieutenant Riley is currently recovering from a minor incident while on deployment. He asked me to inform you he is unharmed and looks forward to continuing your correspondence when he returns to base. Thank you for your understanding,
Your hands go cold around the paper.
You write back that same night, your handwriting messier than usual.
I’m relieved you’re alright. Please take care. Don’t push yourself someone here checks the mailbox more eagerly.
I’ll be here when you’re ready.
Weeks pass before the next envelope arrives.
Thanks for the letter. And sorry, I guess, for the scare. I’m back. Not sure if it’s Ghost today or Riley, but either way...I missed this. Missed talking to someone who isn’t looking at me like I’m supposed to be a soldier first and a human second.
Your cat still sounds like a menace. I like that about you.
The letters deepen, thickening with the little human things he lets slip: bad coffee, harsh rain, the hum before the generators kick on. You tell him about the smell of old paper, your favorite films, tiny pockets of joy you find in the everyday.
Do you think letters can replace conversation? Because sometimes it feels like I know you better than anyone here.
Maybe that’s the magic of letters. You say what you mean, or what you’re brave enough to put on paper. I feel like I know you too. And yes,it scares me in all the right ways.
By March, he’s teasing you.
Think you know me? Guess my favorite movie. Not military. You get one shot. If you’re right, I owe you a real story next time instead of something about coffee or rain.
Deal. And I hope you’re ready to pay up.
We’ll see. Not promising the story will be good.
Then one day, a line stops you mid breath:
Sometimes I wonder if anyone would recognize me without the mask. Ghost is easy. Simon Riley… harder.
Your chest tightens as you write:
Simon… it’s nice to know your name. You don’t have to be Ghost with me. I like the human parts of you, even the ones you think are rough around the edges.
Human might be the wrong word for me, but fine. It’s easier being human with you. Maybe that’s why I keep writing. You read these letters differently than anyone else.
By May, you’ve slipped into something that looks suspiciously like flirting.
Caught myself smiling at nothing today. Realized I was thinking about your last letter. You’re trouble.
Trouble is my specialty. I’m glad you think of me.
Late June drags itself across the calendar, heavy with heat and slow sunsets, when you find an envelope waiting for you.
I’m on leave for a bit. Not long, but enough.
You once mentioned that café in town, Windermere Coffee, the one with the bad pastries and the window seats. I’ll be there this Saturday. 4 p.m.
And if you don’t, that’s alright. You’ve already given me more than I ever expected when I opened your first letter.
You read it again. And again. Your heartbeat feels loud in your throat.
Saturday feels like a year away.
But at 3:30, you’re already out the door, palms sweaty, stomach in knots.
The café looks exactly as you described it to him: brick walls, scuffed wooden tables, that soft amber light that always feels like late afternoon no matter what time it is. Someone’s playing indie music too quietly to recognize the song.
Simon Riley sits in the back corner by the window, hands wrapped around a mug he hasn’t sipped from. He’s in a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, cap low over his eyes, not Ghost, not Lieutenant Riley.
He looks real. And tired. And heartbreakingly human.
When you step closer, his head snaps up, instinctive, sharp and then something softens completely.
“You’re early,” he says, and his voice is warmer than you imagined. “Didn’t think I’d get that lucky.”
You try not to grin like an idiot. “You’re earlier.”
Something like a smile pulls at his mouth.
“Well,” he says, quieter, “I didn’t want to miss you.”
You sit, knees brushing just barely, and he stills like the touch travels farther than it should.
“You look…” He stops, searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “Different than I pictured.”
“Good different?” you ask, half joking, half terrified.
His answer is instant: “Better.”
You talk. About nothing. About everything. He startles when a spoon clatters to the floor behind the counter, and when you notice, he tenses, until you reach out with an open hand you’re not even sure he’ll take.
After a beat, he places his palm over yours. You feel the calluses. The warmth. The hesitation.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you whisper.
He squeezes your hand, not too hard. “I’m glad you came.”
Time slides strangely in that café. By the time the last customers clear out and the sky outside turns gold, he walks with you toward the door, then hesitates like he’s trying to out wait his own nerves.
“If you’re alright with it…” He clears his throat.
“I’d like to see you again. While I’m still here.”
Your answer is simple. “I’d like that.”
Something unclenches in him. He steps closer, careful, deliberate.
“You saved me,” he says quietly.
“Those letters. You gave me something to look forward to. Something… human.”
Your breath hitches. “You did the same for me.”
He reaches up, fingers brushing a stray bit of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that doesn’t quite match the man you imagined behind the mask.
“I’ll write tonight,” he murmurs.
You laugh, soft, shaky. “Good. I’d miss your letters.”
“Then I’ll keep writing,” he says. “As long as you keep reading.”
