husband!simon ghost riley coming back from a mission with a buzzcut!
if there was one thing you loved about your husband, it was his hair. there had been countless nights where the two of you curled up together on your bed while you ran his hands through his soft golden locks. it was an unspoken ritual that existed between the two of you.
it didn’t matter if he came home late, shoulders heavy and quiet, or if the night had been easy and light — somehow, you always ended up there. your fingers in his hair, slow and gentle, and him slowly melting beneath your touch.
after he had been sent on a week mission, the door barely had time to close before you were already there. only one other person had a key to your house, which was him, simon.
“simon—”
you stopped mid-step.boots stepped inside, heavy but familiar. a duffel bag dropped by the door. and then you shrieked:
“what happened to your hair?!”
he froze slightly, like that wasn’t the reaction he’d prepared for. his hand instinctively went up to his head, rubbing the short, rough strands—buzzed down, clean, military neat. gone were the soft, golden locks that used to fall into his eyes, the ones you were always playing with.
“it’s regulation,” he said, a little unsure now.
your fingers brushed against his head, slow and careful, like you were confirming it was real. the texture was different now: short, prickly, unfamiliar. like a fucking hedgehog.
“i can’t even run my fingers through it anymore,” you mumbled, genuinely devastated.
“observant, bird. it's called a haircut.”
“that’s not a haircut,” you gasped softly. “that’s a tragedy.”
he huffed under his breath, but there was no real bite to it. you stepped back in front of him again, eyes softening a little as you reached up —hesitant for just a second before your fingers brushed against the short strands.
“it’s kinda cute though,” you admitted quietly.
he paused. “cute,” he repeated flatly. because you could seriously not call the six-foot three, one hundred and one kilo man cute.
“mhm,” you nodded, gently rubbing your thumb against his head. “like a little… angry marshmallow.”
he shook his head slightly, but didn’t move away. didn’t stop you, either. your fingers kept tracing small, absentminded patterns, like you were getting used to it. “i used to play with it,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.
“i remember,” he said, softer now.
you looked up at him again, eyes warm. “can i still?” you asked.
he didn’t answer right away. just reached up, gently taking your wrist and guiding your hand back to his head. “you already are.”
you grinned. “true.”
you leaned a little closer, standing on your toes just slightly so you could look at him properly. “i missed you.”
“yeah?” he said.
“yeah,” you nodded, more serious now. “a lot.”
for a second, neither of you moved. then he set his bag down properly this time, one hand coming up to your waist, pulling you in without much effort.
you let out a soft little laugh as you bumped into his chest. “hi,” you said again, quieter.
“hi.”
you tucked your face against him, arms wrapping around his middle like it was the most natural thing in the world. he held you there, one hand resting at your back, the other absentmindedly brushing your hair away from your face.
“still think it’s a tragedy?” he asked after a moment.
you hummed, pretending to think. “a small one.”
he scoffed softly. you tilted your head back to look at him again, smiling.
“but you’re still my favorite person,” you added.
that earned you a pause. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you said simply. “hair or no hair.”
his thumb brushed lightly against your side, almost unconsciously. “good answer.”
you beamed. then, without warning, you reached up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
he blinked. “what was that for?”
“for coming back,” you said.
he studied you for a second — really looked at you — like he was memorizing something. then his hand came up, gently cupping your face this time. “missed this,” he muttered.
you leaned into his touch immediately, smiling softly. “me too.” and after a second, you added: “i’m still gonna complain about your hair though.”
he let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh, forehead dropping lightly against yours. “wouldn’t expect anything less, bird.”
and this time, when you reached up to “fix” his nonexistent hair he just let you.
(Author’s Note: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!❤️Just a soft, sleepy comfort fic 🖤 No smut, just tired reader + accidental cuddling. This is tropey and meant to be cozy. Please be kind!)
Summary:
Sleep-deprived reader can’t sleep without hugging something. Unfortunately, she’s at work. Fortunately, Ghost exists.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 💤 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
You had a problem.
You couldn’t sleep unless you were hugging something.
At home, it was always your pillow—big, soft, perfect.
Unfortunately… you were at work.
The safehouse was quiet in that late-night lull. Team 141 were scattered around the room—Price at the table with a mug of coffee, Gaz scrolling on his phone, Soap half-asleep in a chair, and Simon leaning against the wall, arms crossed, mask on, completely still.
You shuffled out of the side room, hair messy, eyes half-closed.
Laswell glanced up.
“You alright?”
You nodded slowly. “…Can’t sleep.”
Soap smirked. “Try closing your eyes.”
You ignored him.
Instead, you scanned the room like a zombie on a mission.
No couch pillow.
No spare blanket.
Your gaze landed on Simon.
Tall.
Broad.
Solid.
Your tired brain made a decision without consulting you.
You walked straight up to him.
Simon stiffened slightly when you stopped in front of him.
You squinted at him for a second, then murmured softly,
“…You’ll do.”
Before anyone could react, you wrapped your arms around his middle, pressed your cheek against his chest, and curled in, using him exactly like a body-sized pillow.
You sighed.
Content.
And promptly fell asleep.
The room froze.
Soap’s jaw dropped.
Gaz’s eyes went wide.
Price slowly set his mug down.
Laswell blinked. “…Did she just—”
Simon didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe for a long five seconds.
Then—very carefully—he adjusted his stance so you wouldn’t slide, one gloved hand hovering before resting lightly against your back.
“…She asleep?” Soap whispered.
Gaz nodded. “Out cold.”
Price cleared his throat. “Simon?”
“…Not moving,” Simon replied quietly. “She’s comfortable.”
You shifted, hugging him tighter, mumbling something incoherent about pillows.
Soap covered his mouth to keep from laughing.
Laswell sighed. “I’m not even surprised anymore.”
Simon stared straight ahead, heart doing something inconvenient.
“…She usually hug a pillow?” he asked quietly.
Laswell nodded. “Apparently today, you’re the pillow.”
Simon swallowed.
“…Alright then.”
And he stayed right there until you woke up.
Because moving you would’ve been cruel.
And… he didn’t really want to.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 💤 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
💖 If you enjoy my writing, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi!
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.
Ghoap x Reader single mom reader, hoping to have part two out before Christmas.
As per usual, just an idea, and writers can take it and run with it. Just let me know where to read your work.
Master list
So maybe looking on Craigslist for a wife was not his most logical decision. Maybe meeting a complete stranger from the internet was not the best idea. Maybe he should have asked for her picture. Maybe he should have told someone where he was going.
But Simon Riley was desperate and running out of time.
"Are you Simon?" He looks up at you, eyes wide, clearly nervous, even with half his face covered by the surgical mask, then nods.
You sit across from him, the little mom and pop dinner seat squeaks. He is stunned because you look nothing like he imagined.
"Do you have some form of proof of your situation?" You cut right to the point. Simon pulls out his military ID, shows his dog tags, and then shows some pictures of Riley.
Then you smile at the pictures. "Oh, he is adorable. Can not believe you gave him the same name as your last name." Within seconds, he is gushing about his good boy.
Once the conversation lulls, you get serious again. "I have a big yard. It is fenced in. You will have to buy the kennel and whatnot. I will take him to vet appointments and text you daily pictures. In exchange, I want health insurance and you to pretend to love me in front of my kid. I also have a prenup to make sure we do not fight over custody of Riley should we divorce."
He finds himself nodding along. He was not even prepared for that risk, but you had. How much had you thought about this?
"How good is your acting, by the way?"
Turns out Simon is a decent, if quiet, actor. Gentle touches here and there, temple kisses, general family time. He was not perfect, but it was enough to get your kiddo believing in love again. Which was all you wanted.
Certainly helps that Kiddo took to both Riley and Simon like one takes to oxygen. Kiddo gushing all about their precious fur baby being retired military.
Simon was a bit confused about why neither of you reacted to his mask or even asked about it but honestly, he was a little scared to ask and then bring attention to it. He was thankful you adopted Riley off the bat, signing a notarized paper giving him visitation with him to buy some time for the wedding.
You had said, "I have to make sure you are a safe person to be around my kid. I may be desperate, but I am not stupid or reckless," while holding up what was clearly a tracker at the end of your first meeting. You are prepared in all the ways Simon is not. Still, it started small, being seen together. Meeting up after you get off work, just so kiddo and the babysitter see him drop you off. Then the dates were you "could not find a babysitter" so the kiddo had to come. Within a few months there was a small ceremony, and he was moving in- right into your shared bedroom.
He realized he might not have thought far enough ahead, but the moment Riley crawls into the bed, he is out cold, waking up to you bringing him homemade breakfast in bed and talking about how exhausted he must have been. Any time he is not working, he is home, Riley by his side, and the kiddo firmly believes in love and all is good in your perfect little worlds, even if they rarely cross.
You expected the bare minimum from Simon. Seemingly, he has set his goal to break every expectation you set. You were pleasantly surprised at him playing with the kiddo and genuinely being interested in your baby's life and achievements. Simon hung the awards and pictures on the fridge as much as you did. You did not expect him to do anything around the house, but one night after the kiddo went to bed, you fell asleep in your chair before doing the dishes and laundry that desperately needed to be done. You woke up to Simon gently trying to tell you to head to bed. Prompt mom panic, only to find the laundry done and folded. You never asked, but he always did something to make your life a little easier while home. Even more, he never asked for anything out of you.
The first argument floored you. He wanted to split the bills, stating he lived there, too. You countered that he was only there when he was not deployed. He was having none of that. Eventually, you compromised to have him pay the less expensive bills. Then Christmas rolled around, and of course, this man decided to spend all the money he saved on bills on you and the kid.
You are not sure what you expected to happen if your kid called him Dad, but it certainly was not this.
He and the kiddo were playing with Riley when you heard it, "Dad, watch this!" It was a slip of the tongue. Kiddo did not even realize he said it. Simon tensed up the same as your exs before they started yelling. Simon, though precious Simon never raised his voice to either of you, and that did not change that day. He had quietly excused himself. Thankfully, it was time for the kiddo to go to bed anyway, and so you found Simon on the back porch smoking tears running down his face and an unopened bottle of whiskey beside him.
"Hey," you sit beside him, quiet, waiting, unsure.
He speaks barely above a whisper, "I do not want to be like my father."
He did not have to say more; you understood. Leaning back to look at the stars, you start talking, "My parents do not love each other. Not sure they ever did. They were good parents, but it still left a lasting impression. I believed in love. I kept trying, and yeah, there were lots of foul people who just used that naivety against me. I thought I had found the one when I got pregnant. Guess what, he is not here. You are. You may not love me romantically, but you saved my kid from facing the cruel reality I had to. I do not believe I ever will find love, but I believe there has to be someone out there for my angel. Because of you, they will not fight against that chance. You have been more of a father to them than anyone else. I will not pretend to understand what happened to you, but even if we were to divorce, I would encourage you to see the kiddo. You clearly care for them like a father." With that, you take the whiskey bottle and head inside while Riley joins him on the porch.
Soap can't get a plane home for the holidays, but Ghost gets two tickets home and a plane ticket from his home airport to Soap's home the day after Christmas. Ghost planted the tickets in Soap's hand, and that was that.
Until Soap saw the house Ghost supposedly lived in. There were little snowmen lining the porch, clearly made by a child. Then there are lights strung up. Soap remembers Simon's old flat. He did not even have pictures on the wall. Soap follows the love of his life into the house, heart slowing every step of the way. He watches Simon shrug off his coat and hang it on a hook with his name above it, then gesture to a guest hook for soap. The boots were nicely lined up, and he slipped on a pair of house shoes like he had done it a thousand times.
Then he followed Ghost into the kitchen, where a Lady was cooking. He felt his heart shatter as Ghost placed a hand on her waist and leaned down, kissing her temple. "Where is Kiddo?" The lady chuckled and turned to look up at Simon. "At ease, soldier. Your mini me is with his paternal grandmother's till Christmas morning." Then she turned to Soap, seemingly startled at his presence. She was beautiful, seemingly glowing with the joy of a woman seeing her husband after a long work trip. Soap felt sick, but he would not dare let it show.
Simon explained that Soap could not get a plane home, and the only available flight would be the day after Christmas. You nodded along and welcomed Soap into the guest bedroom, telling Simon to make sure Soap knew the house rules.
Soap knows he has no right to be this upset, even as he silently cries in the guest bedroom with you and Simon sleeping on the other side of the wall. It was not like he ever told Ghost his feelings. Even still, he thought Simon would have told him that he was getting married. Then again, it was a huge show of faith for Simon to bring Soap into his home. Into a place with his wife and child. Soap found some comfort in that.
Reality is, Simon is just embarrassed by how this all occurred and never told Soap because he was sure he would make fun of him. He also thinks that Soap believing that he is really with you will convince the kid more.
BABY BOY (mommykink!Simon Riley x Fem!reader p2 of 3) (p1)
You can't help but huff in amusement at how wobbly he is, swaying around on his feet and having to lean against the bathroom sink to stay up right. while you turn the water on you start hearing russling and jingling behind you, then annoyed whine and Simon's hand tugging at your sleeve "mama...help" you turn around to see him pouting like a child, his hands tremor so much he cant get all the dumb straps of his belt off himself. you tut at him softly and beckon him closer "oh poor thing, don't worry I'll help" he nods and shuffles closer to you.
you reach down and help tug all the straps and buckles off, tossing it to the floor. "here, let me get all rest of this stuff off. god these are heavy" you get most of the rest of his gear off, tossing it all in a pile to be washed later. you run your hands up and down his arms and chest, feeling every muscle, smirking when you feel him intentionally flexing under your grip "wow, aren't you just the strongest boy. what a big boy, such a show off" you tease, knowing that the blush that spreads across his face is not just from the steam.
he smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck with a mumbled thank you, letting you strip him down. he gets into the shower while you begin to undress as well. you glance back at him as you slide your top off "don't be a little perv Simon" you purr at him with a smirk, tossing your clothes on in the pile with him and slipping into the shower right behind him. you feel his body tip back against yours slightly. the both of you just stood there for a moment, feeling wet skin press the wet skin, letting the warm water wash the tension away, you could see Simon finally really letting go but you knew you'd actually have to get clean so you reached over and grabbed the shampoo bottle "turn to me lovely" he hums softly and shifts so he's facing you, his eyes hooded and his shoulders slumped comfortably and he's looking down at you with the cutest little smile. the cuteness aggression is immediate, you just wanna grab his big ol face and squish his cheeks around, but you hold back.
you squirt a dollop of it into your hand, running your fingers through his clipped hair, a slightly grown out buzz cut, was probably out on the filed so long he didn't get the chance to shave it down like usual. he lets out a small moan at the way your fingers work the shampoo into his scalp, you have magic fingers he always says "o-oh fuck mama-more-fucking...yeah mm-please just like that love" it almost gave you whiplash every time Simon did this, truly melted and let his brain turn to mush for you. you feel his hips buck against your stomach softly, you took your eyes and are about to tell him off but you don't get the chance to before his hand is on his cock, eyes rolled back and whines rumbling from his throat. you take your hands off his head and reach down, flicking the top of his hard cock, pulling a strangled sound from him, he tries to grab your hands and put them back on his head "nuh uh" you tut "your getting clean right now your filthy thing, no touching" "mama I'm so fuckin' hard, you cant make me feel so good and not expect me to get hard, I need it please" "no, if you behave and let me get you clean with out humping my goddamn leg or touching your self, mama will make you cum over and over when were done, patience"
he reluctantly agreed, his cock still semi hard and hanging between his legs. he get over it quickly enough when you go back to massaging is hand, lathering the shampoo in good. he grabs the shower head off the wall and hands it over to you., letting you wash all the soap out of his hair. once done with that he's just excited for you to rub the conditioner into his hair "ok there we go, while that sits we're gonna wash your body good, I love you but you sink bad" "mhm..." he's not even listening, just watching with heavy eye lids as you start running the body wash soaked loofah up and down his body, watching it glide across his skin, leaving bubbly little trains behind it, he scoots ever so closer when you hand reaches his lower abdomen "baby" he whispers to you in a gruff distant tone "please...I'll be so good for you" "no" he head drops down and his forehead presses to your shoulder "ugh mama you can do this to me...been stuck with a buncha gross sweaty blokes for months...need a pretty bird, need my pretty bird" "I know I know. shush Simon" he groans and burrys his face deep into your neck, pouting against you like a scolded child. you want to help him you do but he's gotta get all this dirt and who knows what else off him first, he smells rotten and you gotta fix it before any fun happens, hygiene first. your hand freezes on his back when you feel his body shiver against yours. he sniffles and holds you a little tighter "Simon...baby boy are you crying?" you almost smile at how cute he looks when peaks out from your neck "just...one little tug? please lovie? I just love my pretty girl so much...hurts me that I don't get to see her for so long" you almost crack right there, but no that's what he wants, you know it when his hand slides over your hip gently. you reach forward and smack him on the ass, pulling a soft yelp from him. he has the audacity to smirk at you when you look back at him. the fucking brat.
(@katabby hope I have made him whimpy enough for ya)
ok but imagine how ghost would react to u stealing his hoodie.
It'd be way too big on you, of course. Simon Riley is a mammoth of a man: 6'4" and over 250lbs, so his hoodie looks massive on you. The sleeves flop around when you move, the hood falling over your eyes when you pull it up.
And Ghost would wonder where one of his hoodies went, searching the apartment for it, but then he'd see you, curled up on the couch with your knees tucked close to your chest and the hoodie hooked over your legs, covering you completely.
He'd think you look so cute, just an adorable ball of love wearing his hoodie. He'd sneak up behind you and lean over the back of the couch, resting his chin on the top of your head.
"Stealin' my jumpers from me?" He'd say playfully, shoving his hands in the pocket at the front, his large hands engulfing yours. "Looks nice."
And then you'd feel him remove his hands and hook them under your arms, hoisting you off the sofa in one smooth motion. He'd spin you around and set you on the back of the couch, lifting the hood of his hoodie away from your face and he'd press his lips to yours, kissing you softly.
"What'd I do to deserve you?" He'd whisper against your lips, wrapping his strong arms around your waist. Then he'd pull away and nuzzle his face into your neck, inhaling the perfect mix of your scent mixed with his. "Keep the hoodie. You look better in it."
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader
Fandom: Call of Duty
Words: 1.417
*Trigger warning* Emotional neglect (past, implied), touch starvation touch deprivation, trauma-related behaviors (hypervigilance, withdrawal, difficulty with intimacy), dissociation, emotional numbness (implied), military setting, aftermath of violence (non-graphic), intense emotional themes, vulnerability around consent and closeness (handled gently and affirmatively)
Ghost is hollowed out by a lifetime of neglect, doesn’t just hunger for touch—he’s famished, a starving beast who’d gnaw his own limbs for a scrap of warmth. He carries that hunger the way he carries his rifle: close, habitual, never set down. It lives in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he flinches at sudden noise, the way his gaze tracks exits even when the room is safe.
And then there is you.
Phoenix.
The callsign fits in a way that makes the lads quietly shake their heads. You don’t burn down to nothing; you rise. You’ve risen from the worst of it more times than anyone can count, and every time you do, you bring heat with you. Not reckless heat. Steady, life-giving warmth. The kind that coaxes frozen fingers back to feeling.
You arrive at the safehouse in the late gray of evening, boots scuffed, jacket dusted with the day’s grit. The team filters in around you—Soap loud and alive, Gaz with a tired grin, Price already issuing orders in that calm, anchoring voice. Ghost lingers at the threshold, mask still on, skull pale in the dim light. He’s been gone longer than the rest, eyes shadowed, movements precise and restrained, like he’s wound himself too tight.
He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does when the hunger is loud. When the want is dangerous.
You feel him anyway.
It’s a pull at the edge of your awareness, the way a campfire draws you closer without you realizing you’re moving. You drop your kit, roll your shoulders, and glance back. Your eyes meet his through the black hollows of the mask, and something in him stills. Just a fraction. Just enough.
Later, when the debrief is done and the house settles into its nocturnal quiet, you find him on the back steps. The air is cold enough to bite, fog ghosting from his breath. He’s got his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, posture folded inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly, not wanting to startle him.
He gives a low huff that might be a laugh. “Haven’t earned it yet.”
You sit beside him, close but not crowding. You’ve learned the distance that doesn’t feel like a threat. The distance that says I’m here, but I won’t trap you. Your shoulder almost brushes his. Almost.
For a while, you say nothing. The quiet is companionable, the kind that lets the mind slow. You watch your breath plume white and fade. He watches the dark.
Then, barely above the wind, he says, “You’re warm.”
It’s not a line. It’s an observation, said with the blunt honesty he reserves for things that matter. You turn your head, studying the profile of his mask, the tension in his jaw.
“Everyone’s warm, Simon,” you murmur.
He shakes his head. “Not like you.”
The hunger shifts, sharp and sudden. You feel it in the way his shoulders draw in, the way his hands tighten together. You don’t reach for him. Not yet. You let the moment breathe.
“You ever think,” you say, careful, “that warmth isn’t something you have to earn?”
His silence is answer enough.
The past clings to him like smoke. You know pieces of it—enough to understand that affection, for him, was a currency always in short supply. Conditional. Fragile. Taken away as soon as he dared to want it. So he learned not to want. Learned to survive on empty.
But hunger doesn’t disappear just because you ignore it.
A gust of wind cuts through the yard, and he shivers, barely perceptible. You make a decision.
Slowly, so slowly he can pull away if he needs to, you lean in and let your shoulder touch his. The contact is light. An offer, not a demand.
He freezes.
Every instinct in him screams danger—closeness means vulnerability, vulnerability means pain. But the warmth is there, real and steady, seeping through the layers of his jacket, through the armor he wears even off the field. It’s intoxicating in its simplicity.
You don’t move. You don’t push. You just exist beside him, solid and alive.
After a long moment, he exhales, a sound like something unclenching. His shoulder settles, the tiniest fraction closer to yours. It’s not an embrace. It’s not even a lean. But it’s a choice.
“Phoenix,” he murmurs, and the way he says your callsign is almost reverent. Like it’s a promise.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t… don’t go out on the next op without me.”
You smile faintly, though he can’t see it. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Another stretch of quiet. The cold creeps in again, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he angles toward you, drawn by the heat he pretends he doesn’t need. The starving beast in him edges closer to the fire, cautious, ready to bolt if it flares too high.
You decide to feed it anyway.
You lift your hand and rest it, open and gentle, on his forearm. The fabric of his sleeve is rough beneath your fingers, and beneath that, the solid warmth of muscle. His breath catches. For a heartbeat, you think he might pull back, walls slamming down, mask becoming more than just a piece of gear.
He doesn’t.
Instead, his hand loosens from its clasp and turns, palm brushing your knuckles. The contact is accidental in theory, deliberate in everything that matters. His fingers hover, uncertain, like he’s forgotten how to close them around something that won’t be taken away.
“Is this… okay?” you ask quietly.
The question is an anchor. It tells him he has control. That he can say no and it will be respected.
He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “It’s… good.”
So you let your hand stay. You let the warmth speak for you. The cold recedes, chased back by the simple miracle of two people choosing not to be alone.
Minutes pass. Or maybe longer. Time does strange things when you’re standing on the edge of something fragile and precious.
Finally, he turns his head, mask angled toward you. In the darkness, you can just make out the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “The… normal way.”
You meet his eyes without flinching. “We’ll do it our way.”
A soft, incredulous sound leaves him. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” you say. “But it’s worth it.”
The word worth lands like a stone in water, sending ripples through everything he believes about himself. He’s been a weapon for so long. A shield. A ghost. Worth, in his world, has always been tied to usefulness, to endurance, to how much pain he can take without breaking.
Not to being held.
Not to being wanted.
He hesitates, then lifts his hand, mirroring your earlier caution, and rests it lightly against your side. The contact is tentative, almost reverent, like he’s afraid the warmth might vanish if he grips too hard. You feel the tremor in his fingers, the restraint, the need.
“Simon,” you whisper, and your voice is an invitation.
He leans in, just enough that your shoulders touch fully now, warmth bleeding from one to the other. The hunger in him is still there, but it’s softer, less feral. Like a fire that’s found fuel and no longer needs to rage to survive.
You don’t kiss him. Not yet. This isn’t about heat in that way, not tonight. It’s about presence. About proving, in the simplest, most undeniable way, that he is not alone with his ghosts.
He rests his forehead briefly against yours, the mask cool against your skin. The contact is brief, but it’s everything. A promise. A grounding point. A silent I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.
For someone who’s spent his life braced for loss, that promise is almost unbearable.
When you finally stand, the cold has lost its edge. He rises with you, reluctant but steadier than before. As you head back inside, he lingers a moment, then reaches out and catches your wrist.
“Phoenix,” he says again.
You turn.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. Not just for the warmth. For the patience. For the understanding. For feeding a hunger he never learned how to name.
You squeeze his hand once, firm and reassuring. “Anytime, Ghost.”
And as you walk back into the light, he follows—no longer just a shadow, but a man learning, slowly and painfully, that he deserves the fire as much as anyone else.
