🪳the mystery man
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gary “roach” sanderson x female!reader
summary: it starts with a sticky note. a square of yellow paper pinned to the rec room bulletin board, tucked between deployment schedules and a crooked drawing of price’s mustache. it’s blunt, a little rude, and entirely accurate. you laugh. you reply. and the next day, there’s another one waiting for you.
by the end of the week, the board has become something else entirely—a quiet thread of attention passed between two strangers who haven’t met yet, but somehow keep seeing each other anyway
setting: a dusty, too-small base rec room with scuffed linoleum floors, a half-busted snack machine, and a bulletin board cluttered with deployment notices, bad doodles, and fading flyers. the air smells like burnt coffee and vinyl upholstery, always a little too cold or a little too hot.
warnings: lowercase prose, female!reader, strangers to flirtation → something sweet, mute!roach who uses sticky notes + notebooks to communicate, slow emotional build, low-stakes tension, soft humor, mutual noticing, emotionally literate ghost of a man who has jokes and favorites, implied crushes, sticky notes as love letters, roach gets under your skin and stays there
word count: 1.9k
note: i love writing first meetings that feel like the start of something soft—especially when it comes to roach, who doesn’t say a word but still has so much to say. this one's quiet, understated, and full of that moment where two people realize they speak the same language—even if no one else does.
also: i'm always gonna give roach a little field notebook. it just feels right. probably gonna write some blurbs for it too.
my inbox is always open ♡♡
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
you notice it three days into your deployment. a square of yellow paper stuck on the rec room bulletin board—surrounded by the usual chaos of shift schedules, a half-torn flyer for a boxing match, and someone’s doodle of price’s mustache in increasingly cursed forms.
the sticky note is neat but bold. black ink. slightly smudged like the writer pressed too hard.
“for the girl who's shoelaces are always untied, are you okay.” — g.s.
you pause mid-step, caught off guard by the neat little square of yellow pinned to the very center of the rec room bulletin board. your eyes flick over the handwriting once, then again, as the words sink in—quick strokes of heavy black ink, slightly smudged at the edges like the pen was pressed too hard. deliberate. certain.
you blink. and then, suddenly, you're laughing.
you wave them off, but you’re still smiling as your gaze drops—instinctively, inevitably—down to your boots.
your laces are, in fact, untied. again. one is fully trailing across the linoleum like it’s trying to escape the deployment.
“well, shit,” you mutter under your breath, still grinning, “they’re not wrong.”
the note itself is absurd. blunt. slightly rude. but also... spot-on.
and now someone’s watching closely enough to notice?
there’s a strange warmth that creeps under your collar at the thought. curious. amused. slightly flustered.
you pat yourself down for something to write with and finally dig a pen out of your jacket pocket—a half-dried, beaten-up old thing that barely clicks when you try. the ink sputters once against the paper, and you have to angle it just right to get it going. but once it does, you scrawl your response directly beneath the original message with a crooked little smile tugging at your mouth.
"mind your business. but also... no. i’m absolutely not." — y/n
your handwriting is a little messier than theirs—slanted, looser, the ink dragging faintly in places where the pen threatens to give out. but it does the job. the message is clear. teasing, defensive, and maybe just a little self-aware.
you cap the pen with a satisfied little click and step back to admire the absurdity of the exchange. your response sits directly beneath theirs like a reply in a private thread—only this one’s been pinned to a grimy corkboard surrounded by deployment notices and cheap push pins.
a paper conversation between ghosts. one that makes your chest feel oddly lighter.
you tuck the pen back into your pocket, fingers still stained faintly with ink, and cast one last glance at the note before turning away. your boots thump softly across the floor—still untied, still rebellious—and this time, you don’t bother fixing them.
you walk out of the rec room with a grin curling at the corners of your mouth, invisible to everyone else but impossible to suppress. the walls feel a little less cold. your steps fall a little easier.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
the next day, the note is gone.
not torn or crumpled or half-hanging by a corner—just cleanly removed, like someone had come by with purpose and a plan. but in its place, pinned in the exact same spot on the corkboard with a black thumbtack so neat it almost looked military-issued, is a new one.
same square yellow paper. same black ink. same heavy-handed strokes, like the pen had been held a little too tight again.
do you need adult supervision. — g.s.
you snort—loud and unfiltered this time, drawing a side glance from a passing sergeant—but you’re already pulling out your pen. no hesitation. no thought. it’s become automatic now, like answering a text from someone who knows you, even if you’ve never met their face.
you scrawl underneath the new note, your handwriting quick and unapologetic:
desperately. but they keep giving me weapons anyway. — y/n
the ink smudges a little as you cap the pen. you don’t bother fixing it. the mess feels honest.
after that, it becomes a thing.
by day five, it’s no longer just something you notice. it’s something you look for.
you start passing the rec room deliberately—even when you don’t need to be there.
you check the board after breakfast, in between briefings, after the gym when your muscles are loose and your hair’s still damp at the nape of your neck. before lights-out, even if you’re already half-dead on your feet.
and there’s always something new waiting for you.
sometimes the notes are short and dry. biting sarcasm. barely-veiled mockery of your absolutely miserable track record with field rations or your inability to remember your own locker combination.
sometimes they’re oddly thoughtful. quiet observations. questions written in the margins.
“you always leave the rec room at the exact same time.” “what song are you always humming?” “you double check the doors twice. why?”
it’s… disarming.
one time, he leaves a hand-drawn doodle—crude and funny, obviously rushed—of a stick figure tripping over massive cartoon shoelaces, arms flailing, expression manic. written beneath in tiny block letters:
“this is you.”
you laugh so hard you almost choke on your protein bar. you write back:
“rude. accurate. but rude.”
and somewhere in between dodging patrols and cleaning your rifle for the third time that week, it becomes the highlight of your day. not loud. not thrilling. just—steady.
a quiet little thread of humor and attention that anchors you when the rest of the day spins too fast.
you still don’t know who “g.s.” is.
you’ve asked, of course. casually. dropped the initials into a few conversations, careful to make it sound like an afterthought. like you weren’t secretly aching for someone to confirm what you’re already starting to hope.
but no one gives it up.
no recognition. no smirks. no shared looks. just a shrug, a shake of the head, a mumbled “don’t know him.”
it’s like trying to name a shadow.
like flirting with a ghost—one with excellent penmanship, impeccable timing, and the infuriating ability to get under your skin with a single line of text.
a ghost who sees you. and for some reason, keeps showing up.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
a week in, the note moves.
it’s no longer pinned to the bulletin board like usual. instead, you spot it taped—carefully, almost reverently—to the top of the snack machine tucked into the far corner of the rec room. the same yellow paper, still marked with those familiar thick black strokes, pressed just above the faded keypad and blinking red light of the candy selection panel.
your gaze zeroes in on it instantly.
you always buy the red and pink starburst. what’s wrong with orange. — g.s.
you stare at it for a beat longer than you probably should, water bottle tucked beneath your arm, heartbeat doing a little skip like it’s in on the joke too. it’s a dumb question. completely unnecessary. and also? completely valid.
you can already hear your brother’s voice in your head teasing you—“you really have a vendetta against orange candy?”
you mutter something under your breath—mostly a curse, mostly amused—and glance around the room, half-expecting to see someone watching from behind a half-open door or shadowed corner.
but there’s no one. just you. and the dumbest ongoing flirtation you’ve ever let yourself enjoy.
you snag a napkin from beside the coffee machine—slightly crumpled, coffee-stained at the corner—and dig out your pen with hands that are a little too eager. the answer comes easily, like muscle memory.
orange tastes like disappointment and lies. red and pink, are for warriors.
you underline warriors twice for good measure.
then you fold the napkin into a messy triangle and wedge it between the edge of the candy lever and the cracked plastic casing. it sticks out like a secret note passed in class. a dare waiting to be answered.
you step back. linger just a second too long. and then you turn on your heel and walk out of the room faster than you mean to—half-flustered, half-grinning, all nerves.
you don’t know why it feels like your face is warm. but it does.
and you know you’ll be back tomorrow. you’re already wondering what he’ll say next.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
you catch him on day seven.
the base feels quieter tonight—muted, in that post-storm kind of way where the air hangs heavy and the power flickers just often enough to feel like a warning. you’re heading toward the gym, hoodie drawn up over your ears, earbuds in but silent. no music, just the hush of your own breathing and the low hum of white noise to ground you.
your boots strike damp concrete with steady weight, and as you near the end of the hallway—the part where the overhead lights dim out and the walls start to sweat—you turn the corner…
and there he is.
leaning against the wall just past the gym doors, half-draped in shadow, one shoulder braced against the cold concrete column. he doesn’t startle when you spot him. doesn’t flinch or hide the thing in his hand. instead, his head dips slightly, like he already expected you to come this way.
and then you see what he’s holding.
not the notebook you imagined, but something smaller. familiar. a sticky note—bright yellow, balanced on top of the weathered cover of a slim, spiral-bound pad. the notepad is clearly just a backing, something to write against. the note itself is the message. just like always.
your heart gives a little twist. recognition. warmth. anticipation.
his gloved hand moves carefully, marker gliding across the square with quick, sure strokes. the ink presses heavy in places, as if he’s bearing down more than necessary—writing not just to be read, but to be felt.
he finishes. peels the note from the pad in one smooth motion. and when you stop a few paces in front of him, breath caught somewhere in your chest, he steps forward and holds it out to you.
no words. no awkwardness. just quiet, practiced intent.
his helmet stays low. balaclava pulled up to his nose. only his eyes visible—dark and steady and watching you with something unreadable in their depths. not guarded, but waiting.
you take the note from him, fingers brushing lightly against his glove. it’s warm at the corner, where he’d been holding it, and smells faintly of sharpie, field soap, and something crisp and paper-thin. your heart is suddenly too loud in your ears.
you glance down and read:
if this counts as flirting, i hope you’re the type to flirt back. — roach
your breath catches. not in shock—more like relief. like the quiet momentum of the past week finally folding in on itself. something gentle unspooling in your chest.
you glance up again and really look at him.
roach.
the name you’ve heard in passing. in mission briefings, in muttered stories that always sound more like legend than fact. the kind of presence that lives in the corner of a room—never loud, never boasting. just efficient. focused. unshakable.
and now here he is, holding nothing but a yellow sticky note and the kind of stillness that makes it hard to breathe.
you fold the note gently—like it’s fragile, like it means more than a square inch of paper should—and slide it carefully into the back pocket of your jeans.
then you smile.
not wide. not smug. just warm. steady. the kind of smile that knows.
“i am,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re lucky.”
his eyes crease at the edges, barely—but enough to change the shape of the moment.
then he taps the edge of his notebook once, then again. a full stop. a promise.
message received.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
