tattooed heart â part two of my tattoo artist! simon riley / apprentice! reader
there was something wrong with you.
simon had noticed it almost two weeks ago, though he could not pinpoint exactly when the change started. one day you were your usual self, talking too much to nervous clients because silence made them worse, humming under your breath while setting up stations, filling empty space with whatever thought happened to cross your mind. then, gradually, all of it seemed to drain away. not dramatically. not enough for anyone else to stop and ask questions. just enough for someone who spent ten hours a day in the same room as you to notice.
you looked tired. properly tired. the sort of exhaustion that sleep did not seem capable of fixing. he would arrive in the morning to find you already there unlocking the front door, coffee cooling beside the register untouched. some days you forgot to turn the music on. other days you left sketches unfinished halfway through, pencils abandoned beside them while your attention drifted somewhere else entirely. clients still liked you. you still smiled when spoken to. but the smiles never stayed. they vanished the second people looked away, slipping off your face so quickly it made him wonder whether they had been real to begin with.
the strange part was how often he caught himself watching for it. noticing it. you moved slower around the studio now. stared at things longer than necessary. stood in front of shelves looking for supplies that were directly in front of you. once he watched you make a cup of tea and completely forget it existed until it had gone cold. another time you spent nearly five minutes searching for your phone while using its flashlight to look. every little mistake was harmless on its own, but together they formed the shape of something that bothered him more than he cared to admit. because whatever was weighing on you, you were carrying it alone. and for somebody who usually filled every silence she entered, the quiet settling around you lately felt wrong enough that he found himself listening for your voice whenever the studio got too still.
and it got worse, as all things tend to when left alone long enough.
at first it was only a few bad days scattered between normal ones. then the bad days stopped leaving. you started calling out occasionally, always apologetic, always insisting it was nothing serious. a migraine. feeling under the weather. no sleep. some excuse delivered over the phone in a voice that sounded distant and exhausted. simon never pressed for details. it was none of his business. if you wanted him to know, you would tell him.
except when you did come in, you looked worse than when you stayed home.
there was a permanent tension settled beneath your skin now, a constant anticipation of something unpleasant just around the corner. he saw it in the way your shoulders never fully relaxed anymore, in how often he caught you staring blankly at nothing before abruptly forcing yourself back into whatever task sat in front of you. some mornings you arrived looking nauseous, your face pale beneath the studio lights, nursing the same cup of coffee for hours without drinking more than a few sips. other days you seemed distracted by something only you could see, your attention drifting away in the middle of conversations before snapping back with visible embarrassment.
it was not sadness anymore. sadness he understood.
this looked more like dread.
he spent three days convincing himself it was none of his business before finally showing up at your building anyway.
the decision irritated him the entire drive over.
you were an adult. if something was wrong, you could handle it. if you wanted help, you would ask for it. that was how normal people behaved. simon repeated that logic to himself several times while climbing the narrow staircase of your building, but it failed to explain why he had memorized your address months ago from emergency contact paperwork or why he knew exactly which floor your flat sat on without checking.
the building looked older than some countries.
the entrance smelled faintly of dust, old wood, and somebodyâs cooking several floors below. worn carpet lined the stairs in a faded pattern that might once have been red decades ago. the handrails leaned slightly where generations of tenants had worn them smooth. everything creaked. everything looked one particularly strong gust of wind away from collapsing.
it suited the area.
it suited you, somehow.
by the time he reached your floor, he was already considering leaving.
the idea lasted exactly long enough for him to raise his hand and knock.
for a moment there was nothing.
then movement.
something bumped loudly against furniture inside the flat. a muffled curse followed. hurried footsteps crossed the apartment.
your voice carried faintly through the door.
a moment later the lock clicked.
the door swung open.
you stood there blinking up at him in pink striped pyjamas that looked thoroughly slept in, one sleeve hanging slightly lower than the other. your hair appeared to have lost a fight with a pillow several hours earlier and never fully recovered. half of it stuck out in different directions while you attempted to flatten it with one hand, clearly realizing only after opening the door what state you were currently presenting to the world.
for a second neither of you moved.
you looked surprised.
simon felt something unpleasant loosen in his chest.
because despite the dark circles beneath your eyes and despite the exhaustion that still lingered around you, this was the first time in weeks he had seen you look remotely like yourself.
not the tired apprentice moving through the studio on autopilot.
just you.
standing barefoot in your doorway, disheveled and confused and very obviously not expecting visitors.
âsi? what the hell are you doing here?â
the surprise on your face was immediate and entirely genuine.
one hand remained buried somewhere in the tangled mess of your hair while the other held the door open. your pink striped pyjamas looked thoroughly lived in, wrinkled from sleep and wear, and there was a faint crease pressed into one side of your cheek from a pillow. you looked as though you had only been awake for a few minutes.
âfuck, excuse me. itâs nice to see you, but stillâŠâ your eyebrows pulled together. âdid something happen?â
before he could answer, you stepped aside automatically to let him through.
simon ducked his head slightly as he entered the flat.
it was warm inside. warmer than the hallway had been. the sort of warmth that came from somebody spending entire days indoors with the heating turned up too high. books occupied nearly every available surface. blankets were draped over furniture without much concern for appearance. a half-finished mug sat abandoned on a nearby table beside what looked suspiciously like three different notebooks stacked on top of one another. the place looked lived in. comfortable.
it looked like you.
the door clicked shut behind him.
âno,â he said after a moment. ânothing happened.â
The answer sounded inadequate even as it left his mouth. You continued staring at him from the doorway, clearly waiting for the part that would explain why Simon Riley had appeared unannounced at your flat on a random afternoon. The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable. He shifted his weight, jaw tightening slightly as he searched for something less ridiculous to say, then gave up entirely and lifted the small paper bag he had been carrying the whole time, holding it out almost defensively. It was a pathetic explanation for showing up at someoneâs apartment, and judging by the look on your face, you knew it too.
âi brought you tea.â
the words hung between you.
he immediately felt stupid.
of all the possible explanations available to him, somehow he had arrived at your apartment on his day off carrying tea like somebodyâs concerned aunt.
your gaze dropped to the bag.
âtea?â
âearl grey.â
because he knew you liked earl grey.
because after months of watching you make it nearly every morning at the studio, he knew exactly how long you let it steep and exactly how much milk you preferred. which was information he absolutely should not have volunteered out loud.
fortunately he didnât.
you continued looking at him.
simon could practically feel the silence stretching.
âI was just around,â he muttered.
a lie.
you both knew it was a lie.
your apartment was nowhere near anything he would be doing on his day off.
his jaw tightened slightly.
âandâŠâ he paused, visibly annoyed by the admission before forcing it out anyway. âworried.â
that finally seemed to land and some of the confusion left your face.
for a moment neither of you spoke, then your expression softened in a way that made him instantly regret showing up and simultaneously feel relieved that he had. because the truth was embarrassingly simple: the studio had felt too different without you in it.
and after weeks of watching you look progressively more exhausted every day, after seeing you call out sick again and again while insisting everything was fine, eventually concern had become difficult to ignore.
your kitchen sat at the back of the flat, separated from the rest of it by tall paneled doorways and ceilings high enough to make every sound linger a little longer than it should. afternoon light spilled through the enormous window above the sink, washing the room in pale gold and turning the worn wooden floors amber where the sun touched them. everything looked slightly old-fashioned without seeming deliberate about it. cabinets painted a soft cream. brass handles polished unevenly through years of use. a narrow stretch of countertop crowded with tea tins, mismatched mugs, and the sort of clutter that accumulated naturally when someone actually lived in a place rather than curated it.
simon followed you inside, suddenly feeling far too large for the room.
you immediately busied yourself with the kettle, grateful for something practical to do with your hands. the paper bag he had brought sat on the counter beside you while you moved around the kitchen with practiced familiarity, filling water, reaching for mugs, brushing your hair back every few seconds only for it to fall right back into your face. simon leaned against the edge of the counter opposite you, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching in silence while sunlight caught the loose threads of your pyjama sleeve.
for a while neither of you spoke. the kettle hummed softly on the counter while thin ribbons of steam drifted upward and fogged the lower corners of the window. outside, the city moved somewhere beyond the glass, distant and muted beneath the afternoon light. simon stood across from you with his tea cooling untouched in his hands, watching as you stared into your own mug. it was only after several minutes that he really looked at you and noticed how worn down you seemed. your movements carried a strange heaviness, your attention drifting in and out of the room even during silence. there was a weariness settled around you that reminded him of people who had spent too long carrying something alone and had forgotten what it felt like to set it down.
you handed him a mug once the tea had finished steeping. his fingers brushed yours when he took it, a brief accidental contact that should have meant nothing at all. yet somehow neither of you pulled away immediately. the space between you had narrowed without either of you noticing. close enough now that simon could see the faint shadows beneath your eyes. close enough that you could count the pale scars scattered across his knuckles.
your gaze dropped to the steam curling from your cup.
âi just havenât really felt like myself lately.â
the confession came out softer than you probably intended, almost swallowed by the steam rising from your tea. there wasnât much self-pity in it, nor any dramatic unraveling. if anything, it felt refreshing to hear such plain honesty from someone who had been carrying the weight of it alone for so long. simon stayed silent for a moment, studying your face as though searching for something hidden between the words, his expression unreadable but attentive in that particular way he had when he was actually listening.
you remained focused on your tea, shoulders slightly rounded inward, as though embarrassed by the admission now that it had escaped.
he understood that feeling.
understood it far too well.
without really thinking about it, he reached out and rested a hand against your shoulder.
warm. solid.
the gesture made you glance up.
his thumb pressed lightly against the fabric of your sleeve before he gave your shoulder a small squeeze and moved his hand upward into your hair, ruffling it absentmindedly the same way he always did whenever he caught you overthinking yourself.
the reaction was immediate. your nose wrinkled in mild annoyance as you swatted half-heartedly at his wrist, trying to smooth your hair back into place despite the fact it had already been a disaster before he touched it. but there was a smile threatening at the corners of your mouth now, small and reluctant and undeniably real. it softened something in your face that had been absent for weeks, replacing a fraction of that constant strain with something warmer, something that looked a little more like you.
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cranes in the sky â part three of my tattoo artist! simon riley / apprentice! reader.
simon had never intended to learn so much about you.
most of it arrived accidentally, collected over months the same way dust settled onto forgotten shelves. bits of conversation overheard while opening the studio in the mornings. observations made during long afternoons between clients. details mentioned once and then abandoned, only for him to remember them weeks later for reasons he couldnât explain.
together, though, the details began forming something recognisable.
he knew your favourite desserts were strawberry tarts because one afternoon you spent nearly twenty minutes arguing with a customer about which bakery sold the best ones in north london. he knew you rarely spoke to your parents because sometimes they called while you were working and your entire mood shifted afterward, quieter for an hour or two before returning to normal. yet whenever you mentioned them there was always affection hidden somewhere beneath the frustration. distance had not diminished love. if anything, it seemed to make it more complicated.
the tattoos helped too.
most people wore their stories openly if you looked closely enough.
your skin carried almost no lettering, no dates, no grand declarations. instead there were ornaments winding around your arms, flowers scattered across your body, birds caught permanently in flight. they looked less like individual tattoos and more like pieces of the same landscape growing over time. naturally, they mirrored the work you enjoyed creating yourself. whenever clients gave you complete freedom over a design, you always drifted toward plants and birds eventually, as though your hand knew where it wanted to go before your brain caught up.
the cranes were his favourite.
he had noticed them early on, long black necks stretching elegantly across your forearm. they appeared often enough in your sketches that eventually he asked about them. you told him about a city near the sea where you had spent much of your childhood, where cranes gathered in such numbers that seeing them became ordinary. they nested in your memory anyway. years later they had resurfaced in your drawings. then one of those drawings became a tattoo. then another. now they followed you everywhere.
for reasons he never fully examined, the story reminded him of johnny.
soap used to fill entire notebooks with birds whenever boredom struck. margins crowded with rough sketches and unfinished studies. sometimes gulls. sometimes cranes. whatever had caught his attention that week. simon still remembered flipping through those pages years ago while soap talked endlessly about things nobody else cared about. seeing the cranes on your skin always brought the memory back unexpectedly.
maybe that was part of why being around you felt familiar.
you and johnny were nothing alike on paper. different personalities. different lives. different ways of moving through the world. yet both of you possessed the same frustrating habit of caring too much. the same tendency to leave pieces of yourselves everywhere you went. people naturally gravitated toward you for it. sunlight seemed to gravitate toward you too.
it reminded him of soap often enough that he occasionally caught himself looking for the similarities.
not the obvious ones. you were different people in almost every meaningful sense. johnny had been louder, rougher around the edges, incapable of shutting up for more than five consecutive minutes when he got excited about something. you carried your kindness differently. softer. more deliberate. where soap crashed headfirst into peopleâs lives, you seemed to settle into them gradually until one day it became impossible to remember what the room felt like before you entered it.
still, the comparison happened.
sometimes it was the cranes.
sometimes it was the way you spoke to strangers like they were already friends. the way you remembered insignificant details about people and brought them up weeks later. the way you filled silences without seeming afraid of them. there were moments when a gesture, a laugh, a particular expression crossed your face and something old inside him stirred before he could stop it.
for a long time, simon hated himself for that.
it felt unfair somehow. reducing you to fragments of someone else. turning you into a vessel for memories that belonged to a dead man. every time he caught himself making the connection, guilt followed immediately after. you deserved better than being measured against a ghost.
but grief was rarely that simple.
people talked about moving on as though it happened cleanly, like crossing a border and never looking back. that had never been simonâs experience. grief lingered. it attached itself to ordinary things. songs on the radio. half-remembered jokes. cigarette brands. a particular kind of weather. sometimes it appeared in people too. not because they replaced what was lost, but because they illuminated the shape of it.
there were years after johnny died when simon actively avoided that feeling. avoided anything that reminded him too much of what he no longer had. it was easier to lock the memories away than sit with them. easier to let the wound scar over badly than risk opening it again.
you had complicated that.
being around you brought those memories back with an ease that should have bothered him more than it did. instead, he found himself thinking about johnny more often. not the way he died. not the blood or the hospital or the unbearable silence afterward. the smaller things. the notebook full of birds. the terrible jokes. the endless talking. the person beneath the loss.
and somewhere along the way, that stopped hurting quite as much.
maybe because grief became easier to carry when it wasnât being carried alone. maybe because remembering someone was different from losing them. maybe because you never asked him to forget.
eventually he realized the truth of it.
maybe simon loved you like he loved johnny too.
he came to the realization on an ordinary tuesday evening behind the shop, the kind of evening that should not have carried revelations of any kind.
your first client had left less than half an hour ago. a university student with nervous hands and a brave face who had spent nearly two months on your waiting list after hearing through word of mouth that simon was finally letting his apprentice tattoo actual people. she had walked out grinning, one hand pressed protectively against the fresh wrap covering her chest.
the tattoo had come out beautiful.
two swallows in flight, their bodies angled toward one another as if caught mid-turn, framed by delicate ornamental details that softened the composition without overwhelming it. it looked like your work in a way simonâs never could. there was a gentleness to your linework, an elegance. even after months of teaching you, he still found himself occasionally surprised by how different your artistic instincts were from his own.
his tattoos had always been heavier, bolder, large black shapes. gothic influences. thick lines designed to age aggressively and survive decades. in the contrary yours seemed to breathe, they invited people closer.
and watching your client leave, smiling so hard she nearly forgot her aftercare sheet on the counter, simon had felt something dangerously close to pride.
now the two of you stood behind the shop near the fire exit, sharing a cigarette in the cooling evening air.
the alley smelled faintly of rain and old brick. somewhere nearby traffic drifted through the streets in a distant, constant hum. you leaned back against the wall beside him, cigarette balanced loosely between your fingers while the adrenaline from the appointment still lingered visibly beneath your skin.
you looked quite happy.
simon watched a ribbon of smoke leave your mouth as you smiled to yourself, staring somewhere out into the alley as though replaying the entire appointment again in your head. every few seconds another smile threatened to appear. then disappeared. then returned.
you were trying to act normal about it and failing completely. for some reason the sight lodged itself somewhere deep inside his chest. probably because he remembered another person who used to do that.
johnny had always been incapable of hiding his excitement too. every success, no matter how small, became something worth celebrating. he wore pride openly. shared it. dragged everyone else into it whether they wanted to come or not.
for years after his death, simon had avoided those comparisons whenever they surfaced.
he hated them.
hated what they implied.
hated the possibility that he was trying to replace something irreplaceable.
but standing there beside you, watching you fail miserably at pretending your first successful tattoo had not made your entire week, the thought arrived again and this time he didnât push it away. instead he let himself sit with it. to be honest the similarities had never been about personality, not really. you werenât johnny and he had known that from the beginning.
the thing that connected the two of you lived somewhere deeper than mannerisms or habits. it was the way both of you occupied space in other peopleâs lives. the way people naturally gravitated toward you. the way your happiness somehow became everyone elseâs problem because it was impossible not to feel affected by it.
simon took another drag from his cigarette and across from him, you were still smiling, still talking about the client, still completely unbothered by the fact he was watching you.
and suddenly a realization settled over him with a certainty that felt strangely uncomfortable.
if johnny had been alive, he would have loved you.
not in the abstract way people claim they would have gotten along. simon could see it clearly. johnny would have attached himself to you within minutes. he would have laughed at every story, asked a hundred questions, dragged you into conversations that lasted hours longer than they were supposed to. he would have admired your artwork. teased you relentlessly. remembered small things you mentioned once and brought them up months later. you possessed all the qualities johnny gravitated toward naturally; warmth, curiosity, an inability to stop caring about people once they entered your life.
the thought lingered longer than it should have. simon found himself imagining it with an almost painful clarity, the three of you standing outside the shop together, johnny talking far too much while you encouraged him instead of telling him to shut up. the image felt so natural it unsettled him. because it wasnât just that he thought the two of you would have liked each other. it was that he wished you had met. wished you existed somewhere inside those memories he still carried around. wished that two people he loved could have occupied the same room, if only for a little while.
the image appeared so clearly in simonâs mind that for a second it felt almost real, then another thought followed close behind.
he wished you two had met.
and it tore him apart to realize wishing you two had met meant wishing you had existed in those memories too. wishing you belonged somewhere in that part of his life. wishing the people he loved could have known each other.
and people did not think that way about someone who was merely important, they thought that way about family.
about home.
about people whose absence would permanently alter the shape of their lives.
for a long moment simon stared down at the cigarette between his fingers.
the ember glowed quietly in the dusk.
beside him, you laughed at something you had just remembered and for the first time, he allowed himself to acknowledge what had been growing there for months.
he loved you.
not because you reminded him of johnny and not because grief had twisted itself into something else. he loved you entirely on your own terms. it was only that loving you felt strangely familiar.
like finding a room in a house he thought had burned down years ago.
Summary: A masked knight stumbles into your village. You offer your help and a place to stay, which slowly blossoms into something more.
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Also on AO3!
You were tending to your garden when a monster burst out of the forest.
He was enormous, with a skull for a face and a body full of scales. You startled, grabbing your shears to defend yourself, but as his shimmering form staggered forward, you came to your senses and realized that the scales were just chainmail. He was in full armor, winking silver in the daylight, and his breastplate engraved with the King's insignia.Â
Not a monster, then, but rather a knight. Likely injured, given his ragged breathing and the uneven sway of his gait.Â
You dropped the shears and leapt to your feet, sprinting to catch the knight before his legs buckled. Lowering him into the grass felt like trying to lay a boulder to rest, but you managed regardless, aided by the familiar rush of strength that always overtook your limbs in times of urgency.
âWhere are you hurt?â you asked, kneeling at his side to survey his body. His armor was scuffed yet devoid of bloodstains. Any number of maladies could be hiding beneathâcracked ribs or heat stroke, contusions or fever. You had a fix for most of them, but you couldnât work without proper examination first.
âBack off,â the knight groaned, weakly lifting a gloved hand. To swat you away, presumably, but he was so sluggish that you dodged it with ease.
You dipped your head low and peered into his black-rimmed eyes, the only part of his face heâd left uncovered. The skull was nothing more than bits of silver metal studded to dark fabric, giving the impression of bones.Â
Youâd never met this man before, but youâd heard enough stories over the years to recognize him. The masked knight, brutal and revered, a member of your King's most trusted Guard. Him and three valiant others, traversing distant lands and seas to fight for your Kingdom. He kept his face hidden from the world, the girls at the market had prattled, but they spoke of his handsomeness as an irrefutable truth. How could a man with such an alluring tale be anything less?
âSir Ghost,â you pleaded, testing the name youâd learned from the market girls, dodging another swipe of his paw. âIâm a midwife, and I have knowledge of medicine, but Iâm not a doctor. Iâm just a womanâI mean to say, I have no authority to cause you harm. Please let me help you.â
His gaze darted about, taking in what little he could of his surroundings while laid flat on the ground. You prayed that heâd catch sight of something that would lend your words some credibility, whether it was your stout cottage at the forestâs edge or the red raspberry plants youâd been pruning before his arrival.
âSomethinâ I drank,â he finally rasped. âPoison.â
âPoison,â you repeated. You looked over his body again, but there was no exposed skin to check for rashes or measure his pulse. âDo you know what kind?â
He managed a slight shake of his head, glaring at you all the while. You were too deep in thought to fully register his animosity. Given that he was still lucid, the dose couldnât have been too potent, but you needed to act quickly. You knew the antidotes for common poisons in your region, and you could just administer them all in hopes that one would take, but fetching them from your cottage would cost time you werenât sure you could spare.
You combed through the knowledge the previous midwife had imparted you with, a strong-willed woman who had also been your mother. Sheâd taught you medicine by spoken word alone, by having you recite her own sweeping principles instead of facts from dusty books. Sheâd insisted the finer details were intangible, that youâd pick them up with experience. If she were still around to guide you now, her instructions wouldâve been simple: if it shouldnât be there, remove it.
Swiftly, you repositioned yourself behind the knight, gripping the straps of his breastplate to hoist his head into your lap. You settled one hand on the back of his neck and scrabbled at his front with the other, searching for the edge of his mask. He thrashed in protest, attempting to knock you over with what little strength he had left. You braced yourself and held your position, even as his armor dug into your thighs, scraping over the thin cotton of your skirt.
âIâm sorry for this,â you said, as gently as you could manage. You yanked his mask upward, dislodging his metal skull. âI promise I wonât look.â
Except you did, just for a fraction of a second, to confirm that youâd exposed his mouth and the lower half of his nose. Then you screwed your eyes shut, willing your mind to forget the sight of him, blindly feeling around for his lips. You pressed two fingers against the seam of them, catching the bumpy edges of what you knew to be scar tissue.Â
His breath was hot on your skin. After a heavy moment of hesitation, he relented and opened his mouth for you.Â
You promptly shoved your fingers down his throat, twisting his head just in time for him to vomit into the grass.
***
Once the knight regained enough energy to sit, you hauled him up to his feet, draped one of his tree-trunk arms over your shoulders, and guided him to your home.Â
He collapsed in your bed with a pained sigh while you busied yourself with scouring your shelves, searching for the vial rack that held your antidotes. Youâd brewed them a month ago for the sake of refreshing your skills, another practice instilled in you by your mother. You were grateful for her now, grateful for her always.
âIâm sorry,â you said again, lifting his mask a second time to tip the contents of each vial down his throat. Fervently, you prayed that your treatment would prove effective, that the knight hadnât fallen victim to a poison you couldnât cure. Your village existed at the fringes of the Kingdom, and you couldnât begin to fathom how far youâd have to travel to find him help otherwise, or if youâd even have enough time to do so.
You quelled the anxiety the same way you handled stressful deliveries, by staying on your feet and keeping your hands productive. You brought him water in the only unchipped cup you ownedâthe earthenware was turning brittle, having been in your family for generationsâand a damp rag to wipe his mouth, pointedly looking away until you heard the rustle of fabric being tugged back down. Then you inspected him for a third time and fought back a laugh.
A living, breathing mountain of a knight, the first youâd ever seen in your lifetime, laying sick in your tiny bed. For a moment, you allowed yourself to wish that your brother still lived with you. He wouldâve been delighted with such a visitor, wouldâve attacked this strange man with a thousand curious questions at once, injured or not.
âYou must be uncomfortable, laying in your armor like that,â you said, crouching on the stone floor to level your gaze with his. If he were a regular patient, you wouldâve taken his hand as you spoke, but his glower alone was more than enough to deter you. âSir Ghost, may Iââ
âTouch the mask again and Iâll slit your throat,â he warned. His voice was drowsy, slurring at the edges, a sure sign of the medicine taking effect.
Slowly, you pulled the gauntlet off his massive right hand, oddly elated when he made no effort to resist. You felt his wrist for a pulseâthe rhythm consistent but harried, quicker than it shouldâve been. His skin was pale and scarred and shone with sweat. It was truly sweltering in here, with the combined heat of the summer day and two adult bodies jammed into a room meant for one.
âYouâre burning up,â you murmured, more to yourself than him. You set the gauntlet on the floor beside you, then reached for the other.
You carefully removed each item of his armor, fumbling with the complicated buckles and straps, feeling as though you were shelling a behemoth river crab. The knight was complacent as you worked, having drifted into a feverish sleep even as you jostled his body in your efforts. Beneath the armor, he wore a simple black tunic and pants, sweat-drenched and pulled taut over muscle. He smelled like itâd been some time since heâd last bathed, like sweat and dirt and leaves.
You fetched a second rag, dipped it in a bucket of cold wellwater, and ran it over all the bare skin you had access to. His hands and feet and collarbones, his eyelids and the visible sliver of neck between his mask and shirt. You wanted to do more, but not without receiving his permission, so you resigned yourself to waiting.
The sun had set a while ago, your only indication of how much time had passed. You scrounged up a hunk of stale bread and a handful of berries for dinner, eating at the old wooden table that doubled as your workstation. Then you fell asleep, slumped over in your chair while dazedly contemplating what youâd feed the knight once he was awake.
***
You rose at dawn. The knight was right where youâd left him, still asleep in your bed with his armor neatly arranged on the floor. His breathing was even and steady, his skin dry and warm. You checked his pulse again, relieved to find it slower.Â
There was no telling how long itâd take him to return to consciousness, so you went about your chores like usual. You tidied your workstation and drew more water from the well, tended to your garden and started a fire at your small outdoor hearth. You chopped vegetables for a simple stew, something for both of you to eat once he woke up. It wouldâve been nice if you had some meat to add, but you didnât want to venture all the way to the butcherâs in case he woke in your absence.
Around midmorning, you stepped into the very line of trees the knight had stumbled out of. You werenât sure what your objective was, but you felt compelled to follow the trail of footprints heâd left in the dirt, as if theyâd lead you back to wherever he came from.Â
Since childhood, youâd considered the forest sacred, wild and unruly and belonging to no individual. You loved the cool shade of the trees, the chatty birds and squirrels and hares, the clumps of wildflowers that bloomed each summer. Today, however, the beauty was marred by the sight of a broadsword abandoned in a patch of grass, right where the footsteps ended.
Your breath caught in your chest as you stared at it. Silver and sleek, undoubtedly belonging to the man in your cottage, the blade crusted over with a thick layer of dried blood. You were near the riverbank, but the rush of water was barely louder than the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears. Why was such a violent weapon here, so close to where you lived, and whose blood was on the blade?
You lifted the sword with considerable effort, swallowing down your unease. It was more unwieldy than youâd expected it to be, clearly forged for someone significantly taller and stronger than yourself. You persisted regardless, lugging it all the way back home.
When you opened the door, you took two steps and came face-to-face with the knight. He loomed over you, deathly silent, poised like heâd been waiting for your return all this while.
âYouâre awake! How areââ
He took you by the throat and slammed you against the wall so harshly that your shelves rattled, followed by a short cacophony of glass shattering. The sword clattered to the floor as your hands flew to your neck, clawing at his grip. He pushed back harder, choking you with enough force to make your vision swim.
âStop,â you cried, flailing uselessly, kicking at his legs to no avail. âPleaseâplease, Sir Ghoââ
âHowâd you know who I am?â
âEveryâeveryone knows,â you wheezed. You dug your nails into his forearms, rewarded by the slightest release of pressure to take a single gasping breath. âThey tell stories ofâof you and the Guardâpleaseââ
He released you without warning. You collapsed to your knees, coughing and sputtering at his feet. Then he was the one crouching down to meet your gaze, except you were too busy reacquainting your lungs with the air to make sense of his sudden shift in behavior.
âDidnât realize I was so popular âround here.â
His voice was rougher than itâd been yesterday, no longer thin with sickness. The black around his eyes had rubbed away to a faint grey, revealing the pale, pinkish skin beneath. You sucked in another greedy breath and tentatively felt your neck, terrifyingly aware you were being watched. Your skin was tender, likely bruised.
âThe forest separates us from most of the Kingdom.â Each word made you wince, scratching your throat on its way out. âYouâd think people would be less interested in its happenings, but the distance only makes them even more curious. You could buy a loaf of bread with a good enough story.â
He leaned in even closer, settling one hand beside his fallen sword. âIs that what you were looking for? A good story?â
âI was just looking to help!â you yelped, scrambling back against the wall as his fingers curved around the handle. âI have no ill intentions, I promiseââ
âDunno if I can believe that,â he said. The blade looked natural against his frame, less like a weapon and more like an extension of his own limb. âAlready broke your first promise.â
You thought back to yesterday, when youâd briefly exposed his face to save him. The rising fear in your chest was replaced with a hot burst of indignation. Your floor was a mess, broken vials and discarded armor strewn about. Youâd toiled an entire day to save this man, had retrieved his sword for him while he slept in your bed, had imbued each of your actions with as much kindness and reverence as his status deserved. And then heâd nearly strangled you in your own home.
âAre you a fish?â you blurted out.Â
The knight went still. âWhat?â
âShow me where your gills are,â you snapped. This was becoming dangerous, but you couldnât bring yourself to stop speaking. âNext time Iâll help you drink from there instead. Our village has no doctorâeven if someone else found you, they still would've called on me to tend to you. Just look.â
You swept an arm out, inviting him to inspect the single room that held your entire life. The shelves along the wall, chock-full of herbal remedies and supplies; the blemished worktable with its mortar and pestle and two rickety chairs; the chest at the foot of your bed that held your scissors, linens, and what little valuables you owned; the birthing stool tucked away in the darkest corner of the room, draped in white cloth to protect the wood from insects and dust.
Except the cloth was askew, and one of the latches of your chest was undone. The shelves youâd spent hours upon hours organizing were haphazardly arranged at best. Had he gone through your things while you were out?
âAlready did,â he said gruffly, confirming your suspicion.
You gaped at him. âThen how comeâwhyâd you attack me?â
âHad to make sure.â Of what, he didnât say. He stood with his sword in hand, impassively peering down at you. âShould watch your tongue, girl. A mouth like thatâll get you in trouble.â
âAnd if I donât, Sir?â you asked. His words were unsettlingly familiar, reminding you of how your mother used to chide you for talking too much, for behaving too untoward. âWill you choke me again?â
He loudly exhaled through his nose. âI just might.â
***
You hadn't shared a meal with a man in ages. Ghost followed you outside, sitting opposite the hearth as you served him a bowl of stew and the last of your bread. Both of you were barefoot and quiet, the midday breeze a reprieve from the stuffiness of your cottage.
Ghost ate like he was afraid his food would grow two legs and run away. Heâd peeled back his mask just enough to reveal a strong jaw and lips bisected by a large pink scar, the same one youâd felt yesterday. You wouldâve found it endearing, had he not squeezed your neck so hard that it currently hurt to swallow.
âDo you know where youâll go next?â you asked, in lieu of asking how on earth heâd ended up in your tiny, backwater village. Youâd be lying if you said you werenât curious about him, attack notwithstanding, but you also knew better than to directly pry at political matters.
âCanât say,â he grumbled. You set your own bowl aside when you noticed his was empty, reaching for the pot over the hearth. âHave to wait âtil my Guard finds me.â
His Guard. You ladled him a second serving as you wracked your memory for what you knew of the other men involved, but all you could think of was the market girls speculating what itâd be like to have a knight for a husband. Some immature, ugly part of you wanted to scorn them for it, but it wasnât as if they had a choice the way you did. How could you fault their interest, when marriage was the most surefire path towards securing a comfortable life? When knights were known to be good, honest men, leagues better than the ones youâd all grown up with?
âThereâs a tavern further in the village. I can take you there, if youâd like.â
His reply was stiff. âDonât have much coin on me.â
âI doubt theyâd make you pay." Your village hadnât seen such a well-ranked, intriguing visitor in yearsâthey'd be falling over their own feet to host him, laud him with more comforts and fineries than youâd ever be able to afford. âBut youâre welcome to stay with me, if you prefer that instead. Though it wonât be as lavish.â
ââS fine,â he muttered. A bird flew overhead, cawing loudly before disappearing into the trees, while your stomach turned at the realization that he was legitimately accepting your offer. âBest to stay by the forest.â
âAnd I'd be able to watch over your recovery,â you added lamely, unsure whether it was for his sake or your own.Â
A woman like yourself, housing a formidable man like himâif he really did stay with you, the rumors would be salacious and inevitable. The pretense of his illness mightâve provided you some shelter from scrutiny, if his condition hadnât already drastically improved. Thanks to your own hands, you noted, with no small amount of pride.
âWhereâs your husband?â
The pride went away.
âI donât have one,â you said, gritting out a smile. Given that heâd rifled through your belongings, he mustâve already known this. You chalked the question up to him testing your trustworthiness; a mental trial to complement the physical one. âI have a younger brotherâthis land is in his nameâbut he lives with our aunt on the coast.â
He mightâve known this detail, too, if heâd seen the sheaf of letters in your chest. Youâd never read them, but you knew their contents like the back of your own hand. Joyful and lilting, so full of light that just thinking about them made your chest ache.
âA bit old to still be unwed, arenât you?â
âAre you sure youâre a knight?â you thoughtlessly asked. âI thought they were supposed to be gentlemen.â
He glared at you. It was tiring you out, having to gauge his expressions based on his eyes alone. You stuck your spoon in your mouth to keep yourself from digging the hole any deeper.
***
On Ghost's third day with you, you took him down the winding path to the market square. Occasionally, you came here to peddle your own homegrown herbs and remedies, but this time you had a list of tasks to complete. You first dragged him to the tailor for new clothes, paying extra to have them made in the darkest available fabric, then to the butcher's and baker's shops. To nobodyâs surprise, you drew attention everywhere you went, stares clinging to you both like burrs.Â
Somewhere in between, he finally slunk away from you, muttering something about a horse. You breathed a sigh of relief and finished the rest of your shopping like normal, blissfully alone.
When you finished, you caught sight of the girls you usually spoke with, all clustered near the center of the square. Though you were several years older and had little in common, you enjoyed their companyâthey were bright and energetic, albeit a little too eager to gossip about other villagefolk. Today, however, dread curled in your stomach as they approached, already knowing who their target would be.
You lingered awkwardly at the edge of their huddle, scanning the rest of the market for your new houseguest, but it seemed as if he'd vanished into thin air. Maybe he really was an apparition and you had finally gone crazy. Except the girls had seen Ghost too, and now they were expounding on each and every one of their observations about his appearance and demeanor, forcing you to listen and accept that the brute existed in the same reality you did.
âHeâs so tall,â one of them gushed.
âAnd so strong,â echoed another.
âHe must be fed well in the Kingâs castle,â you said mildly, forcing indifference. It was one thing to badmouth Ghost to his face, another to disrespect a knight in public; insulting a man opposed to insulting the Kingdom.
âHowâd you meet him?â
It felt traitorous to admit the full truth, so you didnât. But what lie would you tell instead? That you'd found him in the forest while you were mindlessly frolicking about? That he'd been sent by the King to resolve some nonexistent matters in your irrelevant village? That your paths had crossed unexpectedly, but he'd treated you with so much kindness and benevolence that you'd offered up your own home in exchange for absolutely nothing?
âHe was passing by and needed someâŠassistance," you settled for saying. A simple statement, not technically untrue.
âIs he injured?â
âHow long is he staying for?â
âCan you convince him to speak with us?â
âAre you done?â
The last question was lower than the rest, spoken close to your ear. You nearly jumped out of your skin, whirling around to find Ghost standing behind you with his arms crossed. The muscles in his forearms were firm and flexed, the silver of his mask glinting in the sunlight as if it were jewelry, simultaneously pretty and intimidating. How long had he been lurking there? You hadnât heard even a single footstep in your direction.
âYes, Sir Ghost,â you said breathlessly, gripping your basket tighter. You ignored the girlsâ stunned faces and headed back together.
***
The following evening, you were called to a neighboring village to assist with a delivery. Ghost was sitting on the floor, polishing his armor with one of your rags and some sort of oil heâd gotten at the market. You scurried around him as you packed your things, performing your usual ritual while doing your best to avoid encroaching his space. The expecting motherâs eldest son was waiting outside, having brought his horse to fetch you.Â
âIâll be out for a while,â you said, rummaging through your chest for your scissors. âIf things go well, I should be back in the morning.â
He made a short noise of acknowledgement, sweeping the cloth over one of his greaves. A single leg of his was capable of more force than your entire bodyâwith how many patients youâd tended to over the years, you were no stranger to human anatomy, both male and female, but Ghost was another specimen entirely. Broad and impendent, perpetually tense.
âHave you ever seen a woman give birth?" you asked, just for the fun of it.
His hands didnât stop moving, but you couldâve sworn they faltered, just for a faint moment. You held your breath for his reply, waiting for him to scoff and call you stupid or simple or daft.
âOnce,â he said roughly. âHelped my mum.â
âReally?â
In the four days you'd spent with Ghost, this was the first scrap of information heâd offered up about his life. But this wasn't an inconspicuous fact, like his surname or where he'd grown up, but rather one that was disturbing, borderline morbid. Even in the most dire of circumstances, childbirth was an affair strictly reserved for women; Ghostâs family must've been truly isolatedâor impoverished, or bothâif he had to assist his own mother. It was difficult to imagine him in such a situation, to imagine him witnessing a process so gruesome and complex as a mere child. To imagine him having a mother, a father, a younger sibling.
He carried himself like he didnât exist beyond his knighthood. But maybe that was typical for men of his status, and you were just ignorant of the custom. You finally found your scissors resting above your collection of letters, wrapped in tight layers of cotton. You retrieved them and skimmed your fingers over the covered blade. Ghostâs sword was propped against the wall beside your bed, clean and polished and close enough for him to grab in his sleep.
âItâs a violent experience,â you said. âDonât you think?â
He didnât reply.
***
You returned home just before dawn. The early morning air was crisp and cool, clouds rolling over the sky as it began to lighten. You tiredly pushed open the door, baskets balanced on your hip. The room was cloaked in shadow, only partially obscuring Ghost at your table. His eyes were open and trained right on you.Â
You nearly keeled over right then and there. âYouâre already awake?â
ââS morning, isnât it?â
You werenât sure why you were so surprised. Ghost usually woke even earlier than you did, moving about so quietly that it never disturbed your sleep. Youâd given him your bed and set up your own small bedroll on the floor each night, as far away from him as possible to give the illusion of decency. There wasnât enough distance in the world to make this an appropriate arrangement, but it wasnât as if there was anyone else around to bear witness. Besides, youâd aged out of the marriage market a long time ago. You didnât have much of a feminine reputation to protect.
You sat your baskets down and collapsed in the chair across from him. Your body was exhausted, but your mind was still deliriously alert. After a night of nonstop work, the familiar sights and sounds of home should've been enough to settle your thoughts, but Ghostâs presence had you feeling even more jittery, like he was another problem youâd been called upon to solve.
The last person youâd sat at this table with was your brother, before youâd sent him away to live by the sea. Youâd tossed berries for him to catch in his open mouth, taught him how to grind herbs with your pestle, arm-wrestled him until heâd grown strong enough to defeat you. And now you were sharing the very same space with a knight. One who choked you, kept his identity a secret, and addressed you as girl instead of woman or midwife or any other decent moniker. Your situation had become so ridiculous that it was almost funny.
âIt was my favorite kind of delivery,â you said, even though he hadnât asked. âSimple, with no injuries. The baby took her time coming out, but she and her mother both ended up healthy and well.â
He said nothing, just like you'd predicted. You folded your arms on the tabletop and rested your head atop them. It was less than comfortable; your back was sore from travel, and your dress reeked of blood and honey, the latter of which youâd slathered on the motherâs skin to cleanse her after delivery. You desperately needed to wash, but the mere prospect of drawing water had your limbs aching in protest.
âWhatâs your least favorite?âÂ
You picked your head back up. While Ghostâs mannerisms were nothing short of impossible to understand, his words were much easierâhe was either gruff or goading, only bothering to speak to you out of necessity. But this question of his was wholly unnecessary, bizarrely sounding like genuine interest. You mulled over your response, wondering if you should lie, spout something silly or charming. You were a poor liar, though, and he didnât seem like he had the temperament for silliness or the willingness to be charmed.
âWhen only the mother dies,â you said.
He blinked at you once, twice. His lashes were pale like butter. âNot the child?â
âThey don'tâa baby has nothing to lose.â The sleep deprivation was jumbling the words in your brain, but you didnât want to stop talking, not when you'd finally gotten him to start. You rubbed your eyes, cringing at the scent of copper clinging to your hands. âBut a mother has so muchâI mean, if she dies, thereâs a lot more sheâll be leaving behind.â
This was a soldier, you reminded yourself. A man who fought and killed other men in battle. You didnât have to explain the weight of death to him.Â
âYouâre dark,â Ghost groused, as if he was any better. âThought midwives were supposed to beâŠâ
âBe what?â
His eyes narrowed at your prodding. You shrunk back on instinct, then firmly squared your shoulders. If your poor manners or contrarian beliefs truly affronted him, youâre sure he wouldâve punished you by now. He was a dog with blunt teeth, you thought, all bark and no bite, until you remembered the sword by your bed and the yellowing bruises on your neck.
âTender,â he said finally.
âI can be tender!â
He exhaled. âProve it.â
You pushed yourself forward, leaning in until your legs jostled his beneath the table. Entirely improper, just like the rest of your behavior, like the rest of your life. Ghost's form had become more visible as the sun rose, the light muted by the cloudy overcast, but still bright enough to reveal how easily he dwarfed the chair. His large hands rested on his large knees, the skin of them crisscrossed with large, faded scars.
âMy good Sir,â you said, pouring as much sweetness into your voice as you could muster. You sounded more crazed than kindâyou didnât talk like this often, and by often you meant ever. âPlease allow me to express my utmost gratitude for your service. Thank you for protecting our beautiful Kingdom. May I serve you breakfast?â
âStop that,â Ghost immediately said. âStick to being rude.â
Summary: A masked knight stumbles into your village. You offer your help and a place to stay, which slowly blossoms into something more.
A/N: Thank you for all the support on this story so far! Likes, reblogs, and comments are very appreciated :)
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Also on AO3!
Near the end of the week, another unexpected visitor knocked on your door.Â
One of the market girls, wearing an elaborate braided hairstyle and a blush-pink daydress. She was short and thin, fidgeting beneath the grey sky as you greeted her, hands tucked behind her back. You surveyed her frame, discreetly inspecting her stomach for abnormal swelling. Girls like her showed up at your door from time to time, young and tremulous and pleading for help, pleading for you to hide their perils from their parents.
âIs Sir Ghost here?â she asked meekly.Â
Not pregnant, then.
You put on a performance for her sake, glancing over your shoulder even though you already knew he wasnât there. Ghost was off in the forest, laying a breadcrumb trail for his Guard or hunting down the people whoâd poisoned him or whatever else it was that knights did when they were stranded in unfamiliar places. You hadnât pestered him about it because you were certain he wouldnât share, but also because heâd bought your silence by helping with your chores before leaving.Â
âIâm sorry,â you said. âIâm afraid you just missed him.â
Her fidgeting ceased. âCan you give this to him? And tell him it was from me?â
From behind her back, she pulled out a ceramic jar of fruit preserves, with a thin scrap of ribbon tied around the lid. You stared at it, dumbfounded. Preserves werenât a rare delicacyâyou made your own each autumn with the berries you grewâbut they carried a different meaning as a gift, especially when given from an unwed woman to an unwed man.
âDo you want to come by later and give it to him yourself?â
She pushed the jar into your hands, turning away. âNo, thank you. I have to be home before the storm.â
You watched her scurry back down the path, pity blooming in your chest. Like most girls you knew, sheâd likely grown up fantasizing about something beautiful and wonderful happening to her, something to help her escape from the mundane life awaiting her: marriage, childrearing, labor till death. How miraculous would it be if the mysterious knight was that something? If he courted her in full armor, fought for her hand with his sword, whisked her away to the castle on his steed?
Except you found yourself pitying Ghost, too. Yes, he was a knight. Yes, he was big and broad and imposing in a way that implied heâd be a good protector, a favorable husband. But he was also a blank slate, the anonymity of his face and background allowing people to project their own desires onto him. The single detail heâd let slip about his mother was your only indication that he even had an identity of his own.Â
When he returned in the evening, right before the first roll of thunder, you promptly handed him the gift and fulfilled the girlâs request. You embellished the story as you told it, tinting the encounter the same rosy color of her dress, emphasizing that she was good-looking and thoughtful and yet to be married.
He sat unmoving at the edge of your bed, the jar looking like a thimble in his paws. You stood before him and decided to interpret his stillness as immense delight. Then his eyes flickered up to yours.Â
âThe fuck am I supposed to do with fruit?â
Ungrateful and ill-mannered, as per usual. Every drop of pity youâd felt for him evaporated at once.
âEat it, I presume,â you drawled, slow enough for his thick skullâthe real one, not the maskâto process it. âHave you never received a gift before?â
Ghost said nothing. You watched him lightly turn the jar multiple times over, as if he was inspecting it for cracks. Then he gingerly pinched the ribbon between his thumb and pointer finger, tugging at the scrap until it came undone. The girl would suit him well, you thoughtâthey were physically complementary, big and small, imposing and timid, but they were similar in that they were both the quiet type. Maybe you could stage a meeting the next time you went shopping, serve as some kind of mediator to bridge them together.
***
After breakfast the next morning, Ghost accompanied you to the river without invitation, likely because he had nothing better to do, prowling behind you in that silent, catlike way of his. The forest soil was damp and your arms were laden with a basket of unwashed laundry. The past few days of summer rain had rendered it impossible to wash or dry anything, but youâd finally been blessed with a day of sunshine to attempt the task.
You settled at your preferred strip of riverbank, where the flow was gentle and the chunks of rock were gritty enough to scrub your sheets against. You began working lye soap into the bloodstained linens first, the ones youâd used when tending to women pre- and post-labor. Ghost sat on the rock beside you, perched like an oversized owl on a tree branch, keeping away from the frigid water despite the heat beating down on you both.
âWatch your toes,â you warned him anyway, scrubbing vigorously at a particularly resistant stain. âA river crab might try to bite them off.â
âThereâs no such thing,â he grumbled. From the corner of your eye, you saw his feet shift.
âYes, there is,â you argued. âTheyâre the size of a fist, and they like to hide in the shade. I can show you one later. But my brother told meâwrote me, I mean, in one of his letters, that the ones by the sea are much larger.â
âYou ever been?âÂ
âBeen where?â
âTo the sea, girl.â
You laughed, shaking your head. âIâd love to, but I only get to travel when Iâm called upon for deliveries.â
What an ignorant question, you wouldâve snarked, had he asked you a week ago. But the last time you had company while doing laundry was back when your mother was still alive, and the last person youâd warned about a river crab was your brother, back when he was still little enough to be carried on your shoulders. Ghostâs presence was a drastic change from the solitude you were accustomed to, but you didnât entirely dislike it.Â
You didnât entirely dislike him, you were realizing, as the days continued ticking by. It was nice to have someone to talk to and eat with and sit beside in the evenings, and it didnât hurt that heâd taken over his share of chores without being askedâthe most demanding ones, like fetching water and chopping wood and weeding your garden. He was more tolerable when he was useful, even with his unspoken threats of violence perpetually hanging over your head.Â
âWhere all have you traveled, Sir Ghost?â You wrung the sheet out and dunked it again for a second round of scrubbing, ignoring the water splashing onto your skirt.
âLots of places.â
You resisted the urge to flick water at him. âHow descriptive.â
The moment lapsed into silence. You continued working, laying the washed linens on the rocks to dry as you moved on to the next. Your mother had taught you to keep your supplies as clean as possible, to maintain what you had for as long as you could. Midwives that served high-status families could afford new linens for each deliveryâsome noblewomen even purchased their own supplies, not wanting to taint their labor with any trace of someone elseâs ordealâbut you werenât anywhere near that category, nor would you ever be.
Ghost eventually stood, wading into the river without rolling up his pantlegs. You wouldâve teased him for it if he didnât look so forlorn, a misplaced splotch of night amidst the greenery surrounding you both. The contours of muscle in his back were visible through the fabric of his shirt, shifting with each step he took.Â
âSaw it for the first time a few years ago,â he said roughly, while facing away from you. You had to strain your ears to hear him over the rushing water. âSâlike youâre at the edge of the world. Nothing but water.â
The lye was already making your hands itch, but his words had you tingling all over, like a body-wide bee sting. You hadnât known Ghost for long, but it was safe to assume that he didnât speak like this often. Honest for no apparent reason, sincere for no strategic gain. You found yourself wishing, suddenly, that he was a sliver more expressive, so that youâd be able to understand why he was telling you this, so that youâd know how heâd want you to respond.
âThat sounds lovely,â you said, hoping heâd be able to tell that you meant it. âMy brother described it the same way. Maybe Iâll see it one day, if Iâm ever able to visit him.â
When you finished, you gathered up the damp sheets back into your basket. Youâd hang them up on the clothesline when you returned. Then you hopped off the rocks, hoisted up your skirt, and walked straight into the river. Ghost quickly turned, but you made no effort to come near him. You stood on your own in the shallows, relishing in the feeling of cold water against your skin, of the silt and sand and mud beneath your feet, tethering you to the natural world.Â
***
The next gift came a few days later.
âIâd like to speak to Sir Ghost,â the second girl said, far more assertive than the first. She was in a blue dress and wore her hair loose around her shoulders, save for two small braids pinned away from her face. She was a full head taller than the last girl, standing with her feet planted firmly in the grass.
âOf course.â You waved Ghost over, flashing him your politest smile as he lumbered to your side. Heâd just come in from chopping wood and was sweaty all over, but his stature wasnât a terrible sight to behold. âNow that I think about it, I left something by the garden. Iâll be back!â
The girl stepped aside for you to duck out of the cottage. You left swiftly, without checking for Ghostâs reaction. Approaching a man took courage, and you didnât want to cause the girl any more anxiety by lingering nearby. In your garden, you knelt in the dirt and plucked a few raspberry leaves, just to pass the time. You could dry them out for tea, maybe, or soak them in wine for a tincture. Women preferred the teas, since they tasted better, but the tinctures were stronger, suited for difficult deliveries.
Though your bushes were large and generous, they were nearing the end of their lifespan, having been planted by your mother when you were still a child. Sometimes you felt like hugging them, taking them up into your arms and hoarding all of their flowers and leaves and fruit for yourself. Youâd never act on the desire, of course, selfish and irrational as it was, but you ached for it all the same. You settled for picking a few berries instead, snacking on them as you waited, sour-sweet on your tongue.Â
âYou didn't have to leave,â a voice rumbled from above.Â
You tipped your head back, still chewing, to find Ghost standing over you, only marginally less sweaty than before. His shadow fell across you, cooling the air like the shade of a tall tree. You glanced around for the girl, but she was nowhere in sight.Â
âI thought youâd want some privacy.â
âSâyour house.â
âMy brotherâs, actually,â you said, because women couldnât own houses. âWhat did she bring you?â
Ghost opened his palm, revealing a square bar wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. You caught a whiff of something pleasant, distantly floral. He began reaching out, as if to give it to you, but then his gaze flickered to your handsâone clutching a clump of leaves, the other sticky with raspberry juiceâand he quickly aborted the movement.
âIs it soap?â you asked, ignoring his judging stare. âThatâs a terrible gift.â
To your surprise, he humored you. âWhyâs that?âÂ
You shrugged, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. âI think it implies you donât bathe enough.â
Ghost took a menacing step forward, his knees threatening to knock into your back. You briefly worried if he was going to strike you down, flatten you into the bushes and brambles and destroy your garden entirely, but then he just huffed and tucked the soap bar into his pocket. You picked a few more berries to distract yourself from laughing and quickly stood, holding them out to him in silent apology. He took them from your outstretched palm, callused fingers scraping against your skin.Â
âDid you like her?â you asked.
âNo,â he said shortly. You kept your eyes trained on the grass as he lifted his mask to eat, more pleased by his responsiveness than youâd like to admit.Â
âWhy not?â
He was quiet. You lifted your head after a moment to find his lips stained pink with fruit, smeared lightly over his scar. You wondered if the tissue ever bothered him in the wintertime, if he ever struggled with the skin cracking or burning with phantom pain. Then you wondered why you were concerning yourself with such irrelevant matters.
***
Midwives were busiest in the autumn, when births surged and cold-related maladies began cropping up. Your summers were usually spent preparing for the rush: the heat allowed you to harvest and dry larger quantities of plants for remedies, and the longer evenings gave you a few extra hours of productivity each day.
This afternoon, you sat at the table and sorted through a batch of dried mugwort. Carefully, you separated the feathered leaves from their stemsâthey were too hard and bitter for most concoctionsâand deposited them into two ceramic bowls. Half would be saved for tea and half would be pressed into oil. You were so absorbed in your work that you didnât notice Ghost preparing to leave until the door creaked open.
You looked up abruptly, realizing your torso was nearly parallel with the table with how intently youâd been leaning over your work.Â
âWhere are you going?â
âThe market,â he said, with one foot inside and one out. His brown eyes glimmered like amber in the sunlight. âThereâs horses.â
Of course the valiant Sir Ghost needed a horse. What was a knight without one? Traveling merchants stopped by your village from time to time, hawking foals and mares and the rare stallion, creatures the majority of your neighbors could only ever dream of owning. All you knew about the animal was how to sit and keep your balance while someone else led you to wherever you were needed. You could barely imagine the freedom that came with possessing the ability to ride, the privilege of being able to travel at the slightest whim.
âMay I come with you? I could use the break.â
And you were curious about the process of purchasing a horse, a feat that nobody in your life had ever managed to accomplish. But he didnât need to know that.Â
While waiting for his reply, you straightened up and lifted your arms above your head, wincing when you heard your joints crack. Ghost watched as you did, causing you to briefly become excessively aware of yourself: of your poor posture habits, of the earthy scent of mugwort clinging to your skin, of how your dress strained against your chest as you stretched. Then you remembered that youâd seen him in significantly more compromising positionsâdelirious with his head in your lap, unconscious with half of his limbs hanging off your bedâand the insecurity quietly slipped away.
âCâmon, then,â he said, only mildly begrudging. It made you smile.
***
âHowâs this one?â
There were five horses for sale, tied to makeshift wooden posts at the edge of the market. One was sickly and lame, with his left hind leg bowing inward; two were young, still too small to ride; and two were healthy and robust, though they were both mares. You were scratching the neck of the larger one, wishing youâd brought her a treat. She was well-built and beautiful, fourteen hands tall with a coat black as ink. Growing up, youâd merely coasted past the horse display whenever it came by, but this was your first time stopping to look, to touch. You felt as if youâd stepped into an alternate, fantastical reality, one where knights were commonplace and horses werenât a luxury.
âSheâs not strong enough,â Ghost murmured, his mouth dipping close to your ear. âIdiotâs just fattened her up for sale.â
The merchant, a wealthy man with a northern accent, had practically swooned when he caught sight of Ghost approaching, ignoring you completely. Heâd immediately stuck himself to Ghostâs side, waxing nonsense about how honored heâd be to provide a horse for the Kingdom until Ghost barked at him to shut up and stand back. Now he was hovering near the posts, staring at you both with hungry interest.Â
âThatâs awful,â you said, but it made cruel senseâhorse trading was lucrative, and all lucrative businesses attracted deception. âWhat kind of horses do your Guard ride?â
âDepends on where weâre going.â Ghost ran a hand along the mare's coat, sweeping yet gentle, far more skilled than your own ministrations. â
Ghost ran a hand along the mare's coat, sweeping yet gentle, far more skilled than your own ministrations. âWhatâve you heard of them?â
You mentally sifted through all the stories you knew, scouring your memory for even a single inoffensive detail, one that didnât betray any more village-girl yearning than what heâd already been exposed to. Ultimately, you failed and resigned yourself to sharing what amounted to little more than dreamy gossip.
âThereâs four of youâone of themâs the Captain, one of them has unique hair, and one of them has a pretty smile. And youâre all very handsoâvery competent and strong.â
Ghost practically guffawed, as mirthful youâd ever seen him. âYou fancy them, or somethinâ?â
Your cheeks burned as you dropped your hand. âYou asked what Iâve heard!â
The horse paid you no mind, leaning further into Ghostâs touch instead. He took his time inspecting both of the mares, offering you clipped observations about their age, musculature, and stamina. He had an unusually sharp eye, you were beginning to realize, and he was far more knowledgeable than he let on. Your mother used to say that the most intelligent people were the ones who didnât have to announce it, and while youâd always taken her words as an attempt to coax you into speaking less, Ghost fit the description perfectly.
Eventually, he concluded that neither of the mares suited his needs. You bid all five horses farewell before leaving, watching their long lashes flutter as they blinked, listening to their square teeth click as they nickered. The lame one looked at you with such overwhelming sorrow that it made you pause. You stepped closer and tried stroking his neck the way youâd seen Ghost do, hoping it'd provide him even the smallest scrap of reassurance. You weren't sure you wanted to know what became of sick horses when they went unsold.Â
When you turned back to Ghost, you found him already staring at you, his gaze burning with an intensity you couldnât quite determine the source of. As you retreated, the merchant called after you, squawking more gibberish about a discountâhe was willing to go half-price on the mares, anything to be of service to one of the Kingâs most trusted knightsâbut Ghost just ignored him and pushed on, back up the winding path to your cottage.Â
âWhatâd the stories say about me?â he asked, once youâd left the market behind and were ambling under a dense canopy of trees. Fallen leaves and overgrown grass crunched beneath your feet; the foliage barely whispered beneath his.
âYou conceal your face,â you said bluntly. âAnd youâre brave.â
âWhat would you add?â
It was odd to hear Ghost inquire about his own self. While he was confident, he didnât strike you as particularly vain. Maybe this was another one of his tests, but heâd been staying with you for two weeks nowâhad you not proved yourself to be trustworthy?Â
âYouâre quite tall,â you said, without bothering to cushion your words. You were well-aware of how much he detested your attempts to be sweet or demure. âAnd ill-mannered.â
âCareful,â he warned, but his voice had taken on the same lilting tone as earlier.
You felt emboldened by his amusement. âAre you missing your Guard?â
His answer came remarkably fast. âTheyâll find me when they need me.â
You ducked beneath a low-hanging tree branch while Ghost sidestepped it easily, moving with a sense of grace that contradicted his heft. He was the first knight youâd ever met, but you figured he had to be exceptional. Youâd grown up alongside a few local boys that had joined the Kingâs army once theyâd come of age, but theyâd done so in search of steady meals and a warm bed, rather than for glory or to fulfill any personal desire to protect the Kingdom. Ghost, on the other hand, gave the impression that this was his lifeâs calling.
***
You were cleaning up the hearth after dinner when the third girl arrived. As her figure drew closer, you stood to retreat back inside, but Ghost fixed you with a glare so potent that it kept you glued in place. Then you were subjected to participating an interaction so awkward that it made you want to crawl out of your own body and bury yourself in the forest. Â
It wasnât the girlâs fault. She was young and pretty like the last two, though clearly hailing from a much wealthier family. She had ribbons accenting her dress, braided into her hair, and wrapped around the handle of her basket. You knew her parents wellâher father owned most of the villageâs farmland, and you regularly bought lard and tallow from him to use in your remedies. She had better marriage prospects than anyone else you knew. Ghost was still far above her station, but out of all his visitors, she had the shortest distance to climb.Â
âThis is for you, Sir Ghost,â she said, confidently holding out her basket to him.Â
Ghost took it with great reluctance, as if doing so caused him physical pain. You busied yourself by checking the hearth again, though you already knew the embers had long since died. It was bold of her to visit so close to nightfall, but maybe she believed boldness was what it took to catch a knightâs attention. Or maybe sheâd been strategic with her timing, intentionally arriving so late that heâd have no choice but to escort her back home in the night. You could appreciate the romance behind the idea.
Together, you and the girl both waited for Ghost to speak. Crickets chirred as the sky darkened into dusk, but the silence within your impromptu gathering only continued to stretch on.
âHave you explored much of our village yet?â she eventually asked. You looked up to find her smiling at him, hands neatly clasped together. Her skin was radiant with good health, clear evidence that sheâd never labored outside or gone without a meal. âI would be honored to show you around.â
âAlready seen it,â he said gruffly.
Her eyes flickered over to yours, quietly pleading for help.Â
âHer family owns a beautiful farm,â you said clumsily, unsure of whether you were speaking to her, Ghost, or the cooling embers. âIâll need to stop by soon for more tallow. Sir Ghost could accompany me.â
âDonât speak for me,â he snapped.
You flinched; the girl jolted. While you were accustomed to Ghostâs harsh manner of speaking, the gritty sound of his raised voice still sent a jolt of fear down your spine, rattling you to the bone. The girl wasnât faring much better, already turning sharply on her heel, though not quickly enough to hide the stricken look on her face, her dreams undoubtedly shattered. It really was too late for her to walk home alone, but neither you nor a glowering Ghost offered to accompany her. You told yourself youâd apologize the next time you saw her.
âRemember your place, girl,â Ghost said, voice low and dangerous, while she was still within earshot.Â
You waited until your nerves settled back down, holding your tongue until the girl was no more than a speck in the distance.Â
âDonât you want a wife?âÂ
He faltered. âWhat?â
You wiped your ash-streaked hands on your skirt and pulled the basket from his grasp, feeling both irritated and satisfied when he didnât resist. He followed as you marched back inside, pushing aside an empty vial rack to make room on the table. Within the basket, arranged atop a neatly folded cloth, were six speckled eggs, a bundle of wildflowers tied with yet another ribbon, and a small jar of clotted cream. A note lay tucked beside them, written in elegant script. The entire display was so childish and earnest it made you uncomfortable.
âThatâs what all of this is for,â you said, gesturing to the gift. âThese girls are asking you to court them. Why haven't you married yet?â
He sternly crossed his arms. âThatâs none of your business.â
âYouâve asked me the same thing!â
Ghost sat down without a sound. You avoided the note and flowers, focusing instead on the food, if only to distract yourself from the present matter at hand.
The eggs would keep for a few days, but youâd have to use the cream before it spoiled. You found some bread and the fruit preserves heâd received earlier. Cutting a thick slice, you spread a generous layer of cream, then added the fruit on topâsome kind of mixed berries, by the look of it. You handed it to Ghost without bothering with a plate. You didnât need to ask if it was good; he rolled up his mask and finished it in three bites.
You prepared another slice for him and one for yourself, pleased by your own ingenuity, though somewhat guilty that the ingredients had been prepared by hands other than your own, intended to be enjoyed by a person other than you. Ghost didnât seem to mind that you were serving yourself his offerings, abstaining from speaking again until you were sitting across from him and working through your own slice. Unlike him, you ate in small bites, savoring each burst of richness and fighting back a delighted sigh as you did. Dessert was a rare indulgence for you, and clotted cream was a delicacy on its own.
âMy Captainâhis nameâs Priceâsays we should start lookinâ, but IâŠâ
You paused mid-bite. Ghostâs admission had you hooked, even if it was halting and incomplete. This was the part of the story you never got to hear, the part about what the knight wanted from the girl heâd so gallantly fought for. The vast majority of personal conversations youâd attempted with him had gone absolutely nowhere, but given that heâd been more forthcoming over the past few days and had just revealed the name of his Captain to you, you figured that you were allowed to pry a little further.
âBut what?â
âHavenât found a bird I like yet,â he muttered. You made a face at his phrasing, thinking of an insult to throw back at him, but then, to your surprise, he added: âWhat about you?â
Ghost stretched his legs beneath the table, his foot nudging against yours. Youâd grown used to the contact by now, inappropriate as it was. You licked a stray smear of cream from your thumb, searching for the simplest explanation. There was no single reason why you hadnât wed, but rather an amalgamation of smaller issues, too insignificant for a man of his status to comprehend: you had no notable lineage, no dowry, no real assets other than your hands. Women who had raised younger siblings would make good mothers, but women who lived alone and worked on othersâ bodies would make poor, promiscuous wives.
âI canât give up my work,â you said, eschewing any mention of your brother. âMy mother was a midwife, and my grandmother before her. I had a few offers when I was younger, but none of themâthere wasnât a man who'd allow me to keep working after marriage.â
âYou arenât a dog,â Ghost huffed. The scar on his lip was almost shiny in the low light. âDonât have to be allowed.â
That wasnât exactly true, but you appreciated the sentiment anyway. You chose to forgive him for his earlier behavior and made him a third slice as a reward, which he finished just as quickly as the first two.
***
A hush fell over the market girls as you joined their circle. As youâd predicted, there were plenty of rumors circulating about the knight, about his unfriendly demeanor and his questionable arrangement with the midwife, about his marriage prospects and conspicuous lack of interest in anyone who approached him. If he really had turned down the richest girl in the village, what hope did anyone else have?
Ghost was elsewhere, attending to whatever secret business he had going on. Usually, you liked that he left you alone to run your errands in peace, but you currently found yourself wishing for his presence, if only to divert the othersâ scrutiny away from yourself.Â
âThe harvest festival is soon,â one of them eventually said, pointedly looking at everyone but you.
âIâm having a new dress made,â another added, forcing dull excitement into her voice.
They tentatively fell back into conversation, discussing the clothes theyâd wear and the festivities theyâd partake in. You wiped sweat from your brow and listened with only half of your attention, wondering if this moment indicated that you had officially outgrown their company. There had always been distance between you and them, given your age and line of work, but it had become even more pronounced after Ghostâs arrival, colored in with a dark shade of resentment or envy or maybe just confusion. It had to be perplexing from an outsider's perspective, why the knight had attached himself to an old and unmarried woman over literally anyone else, even if it more out of necessity than attraction.
As you scanned the market and contemplated making a graceless exit, you finally caught a glimpse of Ghost at the fringes of the square. You shifted your basket to one hand and lifted the other in a small wave, though he was already moving toward you.
âHello there,â you said when he reached your side, greeting him as if you hadnât been together less than an hour ago. The girls went quiet again, curiously observing you both as if you were horses on display. Ghost would fetch a drastically higher price, of course, a line of thought that almost made you bitterly laugh out loud.
He didnât look at anyone but you. âYouâre done?â
âYes,â you chirped, making no effort to disguise your relief.Â
Ghost plucked your basket right out of your hands, the exact inverse of the action youâd performed a few days before. It was heavy with your purchases, but it seemed weightless in his grip, light as a feather.
You gawked at him. âSir Ghost, I can carry it myselfââ
âIâve got it,â he said firmly, promptly turning to leave. You hurried to catch up with him.
Summary: A masked knight stumbles into your village. You offer your help and a place to stay, which slowly blossoms into something more.
A/N: Thank you again for all of the continued support on this fic! Likes, reblogs, and comments are very appreciated :)
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Also on AO3!
âSir Ghost, may I ask you for a favor?â
Ghost said nothing. You glanced up from your work to find him staring at you with no more hostility than usual. You were still honing your ability to interpret his silences, but his general lack of animosity or irritation was a clear sign that you were allowed to push forward with your request.
Gingerly, you withdrew the letter from where youâd tucked it beneath your supplies. It didnât quite resemble a letter as much as it did a discarded wad of parchmentâthe messenger had delivered it to you with an apologetic smile, citing his arduous journey from the coast as the reason it had arrived so crumpled. You didnât entirely believe him, as none of your previous letters had received such mistreatment, but what was done was done. Youâd accept your brotherâs words in any condition as long as they were legible.
âCan you read this to me?â
You pressed the letter against the tabletop and attempted to smoothen it out with the heel of your palm before sliding it over to Ghost. He eyed the paper suspiciously before lifting it gently with his fingertips. Youâd seen him handle delicate objects several times over, but it never failed to amaze you, as unusual as a brown bear picking wildflowers or a wolf dabbing its mouth clean after a meal.
âCanât you read it yourself?â he grumbled, squinting at the ink.
You gestured to your cluttered workstation, pestle in hand. âIâm busy.â
It technically wasnât a lie. As summer flew on by, your services were being called upon with rapidly increasing frequency. You were currently processing the raspberry leaves youâd plucked and dried last week, grinding them in your mortar to use in remedies youâd prepare tomorrow. They were easier on the stomach in powdered form, a necessary consideration for pregnant women. You werenât entirely sure why Ghost had decided to provide you with his company, but you didnât mind it. He was too quiet to be distracting.
âOnly doinâ this once,â he said, pausing to clear his throat. âSo be quiet and listen.â
Despite claiming that you were busy, you let your hands still as he began to read. The first word Ghost spoke aloud was your name, which he announced haltingly, as if it were a question. He didnât use your name often, preferring to either address you as girl or nothing at all. You rarely spent time with him in the company of others, making it so that he never had to specifically identify who he was speaking to. It was always just you.
âI hope youâve been well. Youâll be pleased to know that Iâve been advancing with my studies. I recently learned how to set a fractured leg. The bone was broken in two places, isnât that awful? The patient recovered enough to walk again, though he now has a limp that wonât ever go away. What intrigued me was that all we had to do was adjust the bones; his body healed the break all on its own. Iâm sure that mother would draw some sort of wisdom from the situation, but I havenât quite figured it out yet.
âThe coast is beautiful in the summertime. Iâm getting better at swimming. The neighborâs son has been helping me learn. His grandfather owns a sailboat and promised heâll take us out one of these days. Can you imagine sailing on our river? The current would carry us all the way to the Kingâs castle. Aunt dislikes when I visit the beach because the sand sticks to my clothes and tracks all over the house. Otherwise, she and Uncle are both healthy and send you their best wishes. All my love.â
Ghost finished off with your brotherâs name, which sounded absolutely bizarre coming from his mouth. This entire experience was unsettling: hearing Ghost speak so much at once, hearing him relay words he hadnât written, hearing him use the word love. You began to set down your pestle, but it slipped from your grasp and clattered onto the table, threatening to roll over the edge until Ghost stopped it with his hand. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.Â
âThank you,â you said, as sincerely as you could manage.Â
After steadying yourself, you took the letter back from him and rose to deposit it in the chest by your bed, joining the collection youâd maintained and steadily been adding to for the better part of a decade. You lingered there, brushing your fingers along the stack of parchment, well aware that Ghost was watching you, probably scrutinizing your odd behavior.
âYour brotherâs a doctor?â
Ghostâs return to speaking in clipped sentences brought you more relief than expected. You hadnât told him the letter was from your brother, but him figuring it out wasnât much of a testament to his observational skills; your brother was the only person youâd mentioned that was still alive and cared for you enough to write to you.Â
âHeâs an apprentice,â you said mildly. You shut the chest and took excessive care in securing the latches. âHe wonât be a physician for a few more years.â
âPhysician and midwife,â Ghost mused, somehow entertained by the notion. âSâyour family trade, then? Healing?â
âI suppose so.â
That was one way to see it. If your skills were compared side by side, your brotherâs carried greater value and recognition. He could work in the castle, work in the Kingâs army, work virtually anywhere in the Kingdom. You could only work where there were women, or where there werenât enough doctors. You could very well teach yourself to fix a fracture, but you didnât have access to the resources your brother did, patients and textbooks and experienced masters of the profession. You didnât mind it, though. That had been the whole point in sending him awayâfor him to live a better life than the one he wouldâve had with you.Â
***
The following morning, you were watering your garden when Ghost stepped out of the forest. Heâd slipped away sometime before dawn, and while his absence had been the first thing you noticed when you woke, his missing sword had been a close second. Now, he approached you with the massive blade in hand, gleaming just as it had the night before. Had he missed out on the opportunity to use it, or had he simply wiped it clean before returning? And why hadnât he worn his armor? Was he truly so skilled that he didn't need the protection?
Ghostâs exposed skin was flushed, shining with sweat. You werenât faring much better, with the entire bodice of your dress clinging to you like a second skin. You pushed your questions aside and tipped the bucket to let water spill over your herbs, watching it vanish instantly into the dry, thirsty soil. You wouldnât complain if someone subjected you to the same treatment.Â
âYou should do this later,â Ghost said as he settled beside you. He angled himself so the hand holding the sword stayed furthest from youâwhether it was intentional or not, you were unsure.
You frowned. âWhyâs that?â
âToo hot outside,â he groused, as if he hadnât also been out all morning in this weather.
He had to be suffocating beneath that mask, especially in this humidity. You wouldnât ever dare to ask, but you were quite curious as to why he wore the garish thing. Maybe he was concealing an injury, a scar more twisted and gruesome than the one on his lip. Maybe it was some kind of royal custom, an indication of how high heâd risen in the ranks. Or maybe it was simply another one of his inexplicable habits, as peculiar as his proclivity for silence and tendency to reject any and all romantic advances sent his way.
You stuck your hand out to him. âGive me your hand.â
Ghost agreed without hesitation, placing his rough palm atop yours. Heâd finally accepted that you werenât a threat, you thought, which had pride blooming in your chest as if it was an enviable accomplishment. You loosely grasped his hand and guided it into the bucket of water, still blissfully cold from the well. He let out a short exhale at the chill, his fingers fluttering against yours.Â
âFeels nice, doesnât it?â you asked, unable to hold back your grin. âItâs a trick my mother taught me. If you cool your hands down, the rest of your body will follow.â
He just looked at you. You were standing awfully close to each other, close enough for you to make out the pale blond of his eyelashes, the creased skin beneath his eyes, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp shirt. A small metal chip was coming loose on his mask, one of his silver skull-teeth.Â
You fought back a shiver, though it had nothing to do with the water. He was still holding your submerged hand, making no effort to release you, disregarding any and all notions of propriety. Not that either of you had much to begin with, but still.Â
âIs the midwife here?â
You whirled around, separating yourself from Ghost so frantically that water splashed onto you both. Standing before you was a little boy, chest heaving and face streaked with tears. You stepped forward, discarding all thoughts of Ghost and your garden and the unrelenting summer heat to focus on the matter at hand. While his body was trembling and his breathing was labored, he didnât appear to be greatly injured, but you couldnât draw assumptions without gathering more information first.
âThatâs me,â you said gently, crouching down to meet his gaze. âWhatâs the matter?â
The boy took a deep, shuddering breath. âMy mother needs your help.â
***
You hadnât attended to such a grueling delivery in years. A premature birth, made worse by poorly-healed complications from the motherâs first pregnancy. You werenât one to wish ill on others, but the gnarled mess of scar tissue on the womanâs abdomen had you seething. Someone elseâs incompetence had cost this woman her good health, caused her pain that not a single soul in this world deserved to experience.Â
After stitching the mother up, instructing her husband to watch over her until your return, and ensuring their newborn daughter was healthy enough to survive the night, you began the long walk back home, all alone in the dark. Your legs were sore by the time you approached the cottage, your anger dulled into solemn fatigue, but you still attempted to tread lightly to avoid waking Ghost. He afforded you the same courtesy, after all.
The door swung open right as you were reaching for the handle. You were too tired to startle at the sight of Ghost in the entryway, clearly about to leave. You squinted at him, struggling to make sense of his sudden appearance. He stared back with equal confusion, inspecting you from head to toe as if heâd never seen you before in his life.
âWhy on earth are you awake?â
âYou look terrible,â he said, tactlessly dodging your question.
âI know,â you glumly replied. There were patches of dried blood all over your dress, as well as a large stain on your sleeve from when youâd used it to wipe the tears off the little boyâs face. But you felt more disappointed than embarrassed, overcome by the needlessness of todayâs suffering. When you blinked, your eyes shut for a moment too long, sending you careening forward before you abruptly caught your balance on the doorframe.
âWhat happened?â
Ghostâs voice was harsh, urgent. He was concerned, you realizedâa notion so absurd you wouldâve burst out laughing if you had the mental capacity to do so. You clumsily pushed past him to set your haphazardly-packed baskets on the floor, flinching when you bumped into him along the way.Â
âIt was a stressful delivery.â You drifted over to the corner of the room, where you stored your bedroll during the day. âTheyâre both fine for now, but Iâll have to visit again in the morning. Iâm going to sleep for a bitâjust wake me if you need anything, Sir Ghostââ
He followed you, hovering just a fraction too close. âTake the bed.â
You gawped at him. âBut then where will youââ
âNot sleeping tonight.â
âAre you going somewhere?â
This time, Ghost avoided your question by reaching out and taking your hand.
It wasnât how youâd done in the day, flimsy enough to give him an out if he changed his mind, but instead so firm that you had no choice but to relent. You attempted to pull back anyway, resisting out of bewildered instinct, but Ghost merely pulled harder, dragging you over to your own bed. The ridges of his callused palm scratched against your skin, sending a wave of goosebumps coursing up your arm. His touch felt good, your sleep-addled brain surmised, but you strictly forbade yourself from dwelling on that thought.
Then both of his hands were clasping yours, guiding you down onto the mattress. You awkwardly laid down while he watched, turning to face the wall to spare yourself from his gaze. As you drifted off into sleep, you heard the telltale creak of the door opening again, except it was fainter than usual, significantly more drawn-out, as if someone was taking great care to minimize the sound.
***
You woke to someone jostling your shoulder. Blearily, you cracked one eye open to find Ghost peering down at you, awash in morning light.
âGo away,â you mumbled, curling further into yourself. Even after a full nightâs rest, the residual dregs of exhaustion remained in your limbs, urging you to stay in bed.
He shook you harder. âHavenât you got work to do?â
The reminder was pressing enough to cut through your drowsiness, but his hand was warm and heavy on your shoulder, threatening to lull you back asleep. You forced yourself to push through, blinking unsteadily until the world came into focus. Ghost looked the same as he always did, tall and broad and dangerous, but he wasnât alone.Â
There was another man at his side, a stranger dressed in half-armor. You yelped, jolting upright with such poor coordination that you wouldâve toppled onto the floor had Ghost not steadied you.
âWho are you?â
âSorry, lass,â said the stranger, speaking with an accent you couldnât place. He smiled at you, equal parts charming and mischievous, as if he was preparing to share an inappropriate joke. âDidnât mean to scare you.â
âThis is Soap,â Ghost said curtly. âHeâs with the Guard.â
Soap nodded, evidently pleased by the fact. His frame was packed with almost as much muscle as Ghost, his forearms littered with a similar smattering of scars. The sides of his head were shaved, with a thick stripe of brown hair running down the middle. How unique, you thought, tugging at the strings of an old story youâd heard at the market.Â
So the Guard had finally arrived to fetch their missing knight. Theyâll find me when they need me, Ghost had previously told you, but neither man seemed to be in much of a hurry. Their nonchalance was even more unsettling than the prospect of them marching off into battleâhad they really just been standing there, watching you sleep?Â
You shrugged Ghostâs hand away and kicked off your threadbare blanket, momentarily befuddled by its presence; you had no memory of drawing it upon yourself. Clambering out of bed, you offered Soap your own nameâutterly forgettable in comparison to hisâand straightened out your wrinkled dress, wincing as you realized you were still in your dirty clothes from yesterday. With all the time youâd spent together in such close proximity, you couldnât care less about what you looked like in front of Ghost, but you werenât sure how a different man of high status might react to the sight of such an unkempt woman.
âI apologize for myâmy appearance,â you stammered, swiping a hand across your mouth in case youâd drooled in your sleep. âI wasnât aware you were coming. Would you like something to drink, Sirââ
âDonât worry your pretty head about all that.â Soap waved you off, then sharply elbowed Ghost in the ribs. âDidnât realize you two were so cozied up in here.â
Ghost elbowed him back. âSânot like that.â
Maybe you shouldâve been offended by the insinuation, but you couldnât bring yourself to care. The villagefolk had been running wild with the same rumors, if not worse. At least Soap had the courage to say it to your face.Â
Soap laughed, unfazed as he swept a glance over the cottage. âNice place youâve got here.â
It really wasnât. Your baskets still sat abandoned by the door, the table cluttered with half-finished projects and drying herbs, the sheets on your bed in rumpled disarray. Ghostâs sword was propped up near your bedside, so close that you couldâve grabbed right then and there, though you couldnât conceive of an idea of what to actually do with it. Take it outside to prune your plants, maybe.
âThank you,â you said graciously, deciding against correcting Soap about it not technically being yours. âYouâre welcome to stay for as long as youâd like, but IâI need to go now.â
Soap fixed you with a hard look, every last trace of charisma disappearing at once. You reflexively took a step back, pulse quickening in alarm.
âGo where?â
âIâve got work to do,â you said, helplessly parroting Ghost's earlier words.
Soap ignored you in favor of turning to Ghost, clearly waiting for him to vouch for you. Ghost narrowed his eyes and Soap narrowed them back; Ghost nodded curtly and Soap immediately relaxed. The exchange was strangely domestic in its efficiency, reminiscent of an old married couple so familiar with each other that their communication had eclipsed the need for speech. Perhaps Soap was only behaving this way to intimidate you further, but the ease with which both men regarded one another convinced you that it was genuine.Â
âI can take you,â Ghost said, once heâd finished with his wordless conversation. âYouâll reach quicker on horseback.â
You blinked in surprise. âBut you donât have a horse.â
âIâll borrow Johnnyâs.â
âWhoâs Johnny?â
âIâm Johnny,â Soap cut in, lauding you with an exaggerated wink. âSoapâs just a nickname. Weâve all got âem.âÂ
Despite all of Ghostâs secrets and strange habits, itâd never once occurred to you that Ghost might not actually be his real name. You pinched your arm to make sure you werenât still dreaming.
***
Soap owned a restless grey stallion, sleek with muscle and radiating unadulterated power with each stride. While seeing you off, heâd proudly informed you that this was a horse bred and raised specifically for battle, a destrier. You now understood why Ghost had been so unimpressed by the selection at the market.Â
And so you wound up on a borrowed stallion, trying your absolute hardest to avoid pressing your chest against Ghostâs back as he rode. You tensed your abdomen to keep your balance, riding astride rather than sidesaddleânow youâd made acquaintance with a second unmarried man, you reasoned that any further descent into indecency was negligible.Â
âYouâre quite good at this,â you told him, raising your voice to be heard over the thunder of hooves. Wind rushed past you, a reprieve from the heat.Â
âWouldnât be much of a knight if I wasnât,â he brusquely replied.
You knew Ghost was strong. Youâd known it the moment you met him, when he managed to fight against you even while incapacitated. But this was your first time witnessing him exert himself so naturally, effortlessly managing a stallion that wasnât even his. Maybe he was relieved to finally be doing something befitting of his title, rather than lowly household chores or mysterious expeditions in the forest.
âHow old were you when you learned to ride?â
He was quiet for a moment. âEighteen.â
âA century ago, then.â
Ghost looked over his shoulder to level a sharp glare your way. You smiled back at him. He scoffed under his breath and turned forward again.
The mother lived in a cottage similar to yours, small but relatively well-maintained. At her bedside, you changed her dressings while her husband pensively watched, cradling their newborn daughter with one hand carefully supporting her head. His wife had no female relatives, he told you, so heâd be the one looking after her. You taught him how to inspect her skin for infection and how to keep the baby warm until she reached a healthier weight, then gave him a jar of salve to use on the motherâs scars. His willingness to learn alleviated some of the indignation youâd felt yesterday, replacing it with an exhausted sort of reliefâat least she wouldnât be recovering alone.
When you stepped back outside, you found Ghost and the stallion right where youâd left them, waiting beneath the shade of a hefty oak tree. Ghost was crouched beside the little boy who had run to fetch you the morning before. You froze, waiting for the child to panic at the sight of Ghostâs mask, for Ghost to send him crying back to his parents.
Then, to your utter astonishment, he lifted the child onto the horse.Â
Ghost kept one loose hand on the reins and guided the stallion into a slow circle around the tree. You couldnât hear what either of them were saying from this distance, but the boyâs laughter carried easily through the air. It continued until Ghost finally helped him back down, sending him sprinting off toward the house, clumsy with excitement.
You wondered if reuniting with Soap had put him in an unusually good mood, or if he wouldâve treated the boy like this regardless. Ghost had a younger sibling, you remembered. He knew how to draw water from a well and harvest firewood from the forest. He hadnât seen the sea until a few years ago, and heâd only learned to ride horses once heâd come of age, likely after joining the army. The details were sparse, little more than scraps, but combined with his scars and demeanor and unwillingness to speak about himself, you could piece together that he hadnât had a particularly easy life.
You approached Ghost without mentioning what youâd seen. His shoulders were still relaxed as you settled on the stallion behind him, but instead of turning toward home, he guided the stallion down an entirely different path.
âWhere are we going?â you asked, leaning in as much as your confidence allowed. Ghost talked straight into your ear sometimes, like when the market was noisy and he wanted to pass a comment in private; it was only fair that you were allowed to do the same.Â
âTavern,â he said. âRest of the Guardâs there.â
You frowned. âWhy do I have to come?â
âFigured youâd want to meet them.â He leisurely steered the horse around a bend in the road, simple to him but a remarkable feat to you. âSee if your little stories are true.â
âThey arenât my stories,â you protested, but the realization that heâd even remembered such a frivolous conversation made your stomach flutter.Â
***
There was only one open seat at the table, but before you could move to fetch another chair for yourself, Ghost dragged one over and sat down beside it. You nervously settled into the remaining seat, crowded tightly between him and Soap, swallowing down your apprehension as you listened as the remaining two members of the Guard introduced themselves.
Captain Price looked exactly how you imagined a captain should: gruff and weathered with age, bits of grey threaded throughout his bushy mustache. Sir Garrickâwho insisted you call him Gaz, though you still didnât quite understand this nickname businessâwas the youngest of the four and by far the kindest-looking. When he smiled at you, bright and sunny, a thousand girlish fantasies suddenly made perfect sense. This, you thought, was where the market girls should have been directing their attention, instead of wasting their affections on a churlish Ghost.
You offered your own name for the second time that day, ignoring the stares drifting over from the barmaid and other tavern patrons. One woman seated beside four large men was bound to attract scrutiny.
Soap clapped a hand onto your shoulder once you were finished, his touch lighter and more amicable than Ghostâs had been this morning.
âIsnât she bonnie?â
You blanched. âWhat did you just call me?â
âDonât mind him,â Gaz sighed, offering you an apologetic smile. âItâs very nice to meet you. Honestly, I canât believe youâve managed to tolerate Ghost all these weeks.â
âHe isnât that bad,â you said tentatively. Ghost flashed you an unimpressed glare while Gaz just laughed.
Price ordered ale for the table. He ordered one for you as well, but you didnât care much for the taste, so after politely suffering through a few sips, you pawned the drink off to Soap after heâd finished his own. Ghost drank more carefully than the others, angling his head just so as he worked around the mask, the same way youâd seen him do a hundred times over.
Rather than any discussion of violence or politics or other knightly affairs, the men traded meaningless jokes and vague observations about their journey. The tavern wasnât particularly busy, but there were enough prying eyes and wandering ears around to discourage any worthwhile conversation. Nearby, a serving girl cleaned the same table with all the urgency of a snail, stealing glances at them whenever she thought no one was looking.
You listened quietly, watching their dynamic unfold. Price was unmistakably the leader, commanding the flow of conversation without having to force it outright. Soap was loudest of them all, restless like his horse, while Gaz balanced him out with his composure. After weeks spent deciphering Ghost through little more than his eyes and posture, having full access to the other three menâs expressions was jarring. It felt strangely invasive to view them so openly, like stumbling across a creature stripped of its natural armorâa beetle without its shell, a snake without its scales.Â
Eventually, Price withdrew a folded map and spread it flat across the table. You curiously leaned forward to get a good look at it. Maps were rare enough that youâd only ever glimpsed a few in passing. The parchment was yellowed, the ink beginning to fade, but the details had been meticulously drawn and labeled.
âCould you show me exactly where we are?â Price asked you.
Your heart leapt straight into your throat. You were undeniably the least qualified person at the table to answer that questionâeven Ghost knew the local geography better than you did. But you had the uneasy suspicion that they already knew where they were, that this wasnât really a genuine question so much as an assessment of your ignorance. Maybe they wanted confirmation that you truly were just a clueless village woman who had stumbled into a good deed, not someone deliberately watching for a particular knight.Â
You bent over the map, searching for familiar landmarks first. The dense patch of green was forest, and the broad wash of blue could only be the sea. Your brother existed there, somewhere unreachable beyond the ink and parchment. Even though the representation of distance had been shrunken down a thousand times over to fit within the paper, the gap between you and him seemed impossibly vast when laid out so plainly before you. You forced yourself to reexamine the forest, finding a thin blue vein between the trees.
You turned to Ghost, pointing without daring to touch the map itself. âIs that the river in the forest?â
âThereâs only one river in the forest,â he grumbled. His knee knocked into yours beneath the table; you pressed against him to ground yourself, traitorously pleased when he didnât pull away.
âIâd guess that weâre somewhere aroundâŠhere?â
You drew a circle in the air over the edge of the map, between where the forest markings thinned out and the Kingdom ended. Even the map itself was worn thinner there, a tiny tear in the parchment carefully mended with adhesive.Â
âI havenât seen many maps before,â you admitted sheepishly, withdrawing your hand to wipe your clammy palm on your skirt. Gaz gave you a sympathetic look that shouldâve helped but didnât. âAre you planning your return?âÂ
Price refolded the map and tucked it in his pocket. âWeâll be staying here for a bit first.â
All of them seemed to implicitly understand how much time that constituted, leaving you alone in the dark. You didnât bother to ask another question, simply relieved that this strange trial was over, though something unpleasant still prickled beneath your skin, the pathetic awareness of how little you knew and how little they didnât.Â
You cast a discreet glance toward Ghost, feeling very much like the serving girl still creeping nearby. As youâd predicted, he was already looking at you. For one single shameful moment, you found yourself wishing it was only the two of you here, respectably seated across from each other rather than squashed side-to-side. It never felt this uncomfortable when Ghost poked at you, maybe because you knew you were allowed to poke back.
âOur villageâs harvest festival is soon,â you said, shoving the wish aside. Though he wasnât your captain, something about Price compelled you to defer to him, to put on your best behavior. âIâm sure everyone would be honored to have you all in attendance.â
âWe'll see,â Price replied noncommittally, shifting his focus back to the men.
Chapter 4!
***
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Summary: A masked knight stumbles into your village. You offer your help and a place to stay, which slowly blossoms into something more.
A/N: I caught a cold while writing this one, so please forgive me for any glaring mistakes! I'll come back and edit them later. Likes, reblogs, and comments are very appreciated :)
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Also on AO3!
After a second round of ale, Ghost informed the men heâd walk you home. You found yourself bidding them an overly enthusiastic farewell, doling out every nicety you could muster because it seemed like the easiest path toward earning their approval. Even then, you could feel their eyes tracking the two of you as you left the tavern, as if there was something meaningful to be gleaned from the distance between your bodies or the length of your strides.Â
âThey arenât nearly as intimidating in the stories,â you said, once you were along the path back home. As lovely as Soapâs horse had been, you preferred walking to ridingâyou felt more comfortable when you had steady ground beneath your feet.Â
âTheyâre soldiers,â Ghost replied, which was more than fair.Â
In the stories, soldiers rarely seemed burdened by the uglier realities of their work. The violence existed only to heighten the romance of it allâa roughened man showing tenderness only for the girl he loved, the lucky girl blooming under his adoration like a flower in the sun. Sheâd become special, cherished, noteworthy, all the things her ordinary village life could never afford her.
You understood the appeal well enough, but you couldnât conjure up a way to explain that without speaking cruelly of the market girls. Despite their immaturity, you didnât actually harbor any judgement toward their fantasies. You mightâve turned out exactly like them, had you been born to a different woman. So you borrowed one of Ghostâs favorite conversation tactics and kept quiet instead.
You continued along the path together, sticking to the shaded side. This summer would be remembered for years to come, you thought, for how remarkably, excruciatingly hot it had been.
âWhyâd you play stupid in there?â Ghost suddenly asked.
You faltered. âWhen did I do that?â
âThe map,â he said impatiently.Â
âI wasnât playing stupid,â you protested, fighting the embarrassment twisting up in your stomach. âUs commonfolk arenât as well-educated in geography as you are.â
Ghost remained skeptical. âYouâre hiding something, girl.â
On the contrary, you werenât hiding enough. There was hardly an aspect of your life he hadnât already seen. Ghost knew what you looked like when you were happy or pensive or half-asleep; what your brother wrote to you about and where you stored his letters; how you sweated over the hearth while cooking and how you organized your shelves; the way you hunched over your worktable whenever you needed to concentrate.Â
âYouâre the secretive one,â you shot back, because it was easier to argue than process the fact that he currently knew you more intimately than your own living family did. âGhost isnât even your real name.â
âDid you think it was?â
Before you could respond, a rabbit darted across the path and disappeared into the underbrush. You listened to the rustle of leaves until the sound faded away, wishing you couldâve escaped with it.Â
âLetâs not talk about it,â you said weakly.
To your relief, he didnât push you any further. You completed the rest of your walk in silence, but as your cottage slowly came into view, you couldnât help but feel even more horribly out of your depth. This was all your existence amounted to: your home, your garden, your work. You didnât know enough to even recognize what you didnât know. How much of Ghostâs life remained hidden simply because you lacked the imagination to ask about it? And if you did know the right questions, would he actually be willing to answer them?Â
While Price mightâve considered your ignorance to be a favorable trait, you didnât share the sentiment in the slightest. What you liked was being knowledgeable, being aware. You liked learning from your motherâs words, from your brotherâs writings, from the women whose homes you visited for deliveries and illnesses. You liked knowing how people lived, how they differed from one another, how you could help ease their ailments. But your mother was gone, your brother was by the sea, and there were definite limits to what you could learn on your own.Â
Ghost slowed near the edge of the property, gazing out over your land that wasnât technically yours.
âI can stay with them at the tavern,â he said, shifting his weight onto his back foot. You doubted he possessed a single bone of uncertainty in his entire body, but this had to be the closest heâd ever come to it. âOrâŠâÂ
Your spiraling was halted by the abrupt realization that with the arrival of his Guard, Ghost would also be leaving soon. His impending departure shouldâve been a cause for celebrationâyouâd regain your privacy, the gossiping would cease, and you wouldnât be stuck quarreling with an infuriating man every other conversation. But in light of everything youâd seen and learned today, none of that seemed to matter.Â
Even if they were merely the men he worked alongside, Ghost still had people to return to, places to go beyond this village and its corresponding stretch of forest and river. Meanwhile, you would remain tethered to the same life as all the women before you. Were you really that different from all the wistful girls you knew, dreaming up stories to keep themselves distracted from their reality? Were they jealous of you, or were they jealous of the knight?
âI donât mind if you stay here.â You spoke tersely, fearful that if you ran your mouth for too long, you might accidentally spill every terrible thought rattling around inside your head.Â
Ghost nodded once, promptly settling the matter.
***
When you went to the market a few days later, you were accompanied by both Ghost and Gaz. When you asked about Soap and Price, neither of them said anything, but you were familiar enough with their endless song-and-dance of secrecy to not press the matter.Â
You hadnât been anticipating them joining you, but it wasnât all that terrible. Their company kept you from wallowing alone in your thoughts, and Gaz was friendly enough that speaking to him didnât require a thousand exhausting layers of formality. Still, walking around in public between him and Ghost still had you feeling like a sheep flanked by two wolves, but even that comparison didnât seem drastic enough. If they were creatures of the land, then you belonged to the river; if they belonged to the river, you were merely an insect skimming above the surface.
With the harvest festival approaching, the village was livelier than usual. New seasonal stalls crowded the market square, and unfamiliar faces milled around the locals. The market girls stood in their usual huddle, chatting amongst themselves. You noticed them noticing you, but you resolved only to approach if you actually had somethingâor someoneâto offer.Â
âDo you have any interest in marriage?â you asked Gaz, once the three of you were tucked away inside the bakerâs shop.
Gaz gave you an easy smile, entirely unphased by the question. âNot yet, Iâm afraid. Iâve got to earn more first.â
âDonât let her start,â Ghost warned him, as though you were moments away from launching into an elaborate spiel on the intricacies of courtship and wooing maidens. âThey wonât leave you alone if you do.â
You selected a loaf of bread and deposited it into your basket, which Ghost had insisted on carrying before youâd even left the cottage. âI never told anyone to approach you, Sir Ghost. The girls did that entirely on their own.â
Gazâs mouth fell open in disbelief. âGhost was getting approached?â
âBefore they became acquainted with his personality, yes.â
Both you and Gaz dissolved into laughter, loud enough to earn a wary glance from the shopkeeper. Ghost grumbled something under his breath about the pair of you being idiots, but you caught his eye for a brief moment, blinking just after he did. His eyelashes were nonsensically pale, you thought distractedly, far too delicate of a feature for someone built like him.
âTheyâre too young,â Ghost said, directed more toward Gaz than you. âBetter for you than me.â
That was new. You were still adjusting to the idea that Ghost had people in his life he could behave comfortably around, but this threw you off for an entirely different reason. Heâd never spoken about the girls like this before, had barely volunteered an opinion that revealed anything about how he viewed courtship or marriage or romance at all, assuming he even allowed himself to entertain such notions in the first place. It was a painfully basic standard of decency, really, but it was nice to know that he had a sense of morals regarding these matters.
âHow many were there?â Gaz asked, as uncautious as ever. He was squinting between you both, seemingly just as intrigued by the revelation. You looked down at yourself in case heâd spotted some glaring flaw in your appearance before you had, inspecting your skirt for any stray dirt or leaves caught in the fabric.
Ghost remained silent, apparently unwilling to reminisce.
âHe was quite popular,â you replied in his stead, to which Gaz snorted.
Upon finding nothing wrong with your clothes, you motioned for Ghost to hand over the basket so you could retrieve your coin purse. To your confusion, he ignored you completely. Gaz paid for the bread instead, and when you demanded to know whether theyâd arranged this beforehand, Ghost began squinting as well, almost as if he were smiling beneath the mask.Â
***
Ghostâs presence began to lessen in frequency as he spent more and more time occupied with the Guard. With or without company, you kept yourself as busy as possibleâyou delivered another baby two villages over, tended to a family stricken with fever, and cooked meals for two just in case he happened to return in time to join you. On the evenings you ate alone, you sat outside and distracted yourself with games you used to play with your brother: counting how many different wildflowers you could spot in the grass, how many different insects you could hear in the trees, how many different animal-shaped clouds you could spot in the sky.Â
It wasnât particularly enjoyable, but it was fine. Youâd lived like this for years. Once Ghost was permanently gone and enough time had passed, youâd settle back into routine.
Four solitary evenings came and went. On the fifth, you abandoned the games and wandered over to the garden after dinner. You laid down without much consideration for how you might look, near the bushes your mother had planted while she was still alive. The wildgrass itched against your skin, but the sensation felt more grounding than it did unpleasant. You closed your eyes and breathed in the scent of fresh dirt, lulling yourself into some semblance of calm.Â
You werenât sure how much time had passedâit couldâve been minutes or hoursâwhen a rough voice broke you from your reverie.
âWhat are you doing?â
âEnjoying the weather,â you replied, without bothering to open your eyes.
When you finally did, you predictably found Ghost looming above, staring down at you as if youâd lost your mind. Still, he extended a hand toward you, stooping over so itâd be within your reach. As he hauled you upright, an unsteady mix of nervousness and elation coursed through your veins, near-overwhelming in its headiness until you shoved the feeling aside and blamed it on the abrupt rush of blood to your head.
âThank you,â you said, brushing stray blades of grass from your clothes. âWhereâs the Guard?â
âOut.â He hesitated, a telltale sign that he was debating the merits of speaking further. âTheyâve gone drinking.â
âWhy didnât you go with them?â
âDidnât want to.â
Did that mean he wanted to be here instead? Even if you had the courage to ask, you didnât want to push your luck and spoil the moment. You set your hands on your hips, searching for a pastime that could prove more entertaining than sitting idle and watching three men drink away the evening. There were always chores to do, and Ghost was usually content to keep you company as you went about completing them. But with your time together becoming increasingly finite, you didnât want to waste it on something as boringly routine as housework.
âLetâs take a walk,â you suggested.
âItâll be dark soon,â Ghost said, dubiously glancing up at the sky.Â
You followed his gaze to find a large cloud hanging overhead, streaked orange with the beginnings of sunset. When you tilted your head just right, it vaguely resembled a hawk in flight. The hawk-cloud had to be a sign, you thought, so you waved Ghost off and set off toward the forest. After a moment, he followed.Â
You wound up by the river, near the same outcropping of rocks where you usually washed your laundry. In the fading light, the water looked more purple than blue, glittering with the shifting current. You walked along the bank until you found a cluster of smooth stones near the riverbed. Ghost lingered at your shoulder, watching as you picked one up and weighed it in your palm.
âDo you know how to skip stones?â
He shook his head.
âNeither do I,â you admitted, but you tossed the stone out anyway, curving your arm the way you imagined you were supposed to. It struck the surface once before sinking beneath the current. You watched the ripples fan out, ring after widening ring, until the water returned to its undisturbed state.
âGood one,â Ghost teased.Â
You wouldâve teased him back, thrown out some silly challenge for how he couldnât do much better, but today you were just pleased that he was still willing to indulge you. You picked up another stone and tried again, only for it to sink just like the first, swallowed up by the current. It was pathetically irrational, but the repeated failure suddenly made you feel sadâthose stones might've rested in that exact spot for centuries, but now that youâd gone and disturbed them, they were forever lost underwater.
Resisting the urge to keep fidgeting, you stepped away from the river and tucked your hands behind your back. When youâd first brought Ghost here, you hadnât cared whether the outing was novel or impressive; all that mattered was completing your work. But now that he had other places he could beânow that heâd deliberately chosen to spend this evening with youâyou felt compelled to prove the merits of your presence. How were you supposed to do that by taking him somewhere heâd already seen? Youâd run out of new things to offer him before heâd even left.
âYou never showed me the river crabs,â Ghost said, as if heâd plucked the thought straight from your mind.
Heâd remembered another inconsequential thing youâd said. That absurd flutter returned to your stomach, but you tamped it down before it could fester into something worse. Gathering your skirt high enough to keep the hems from soaking through, you waded into the shallows and crouched beside the rocks to peer underneath. The crabs usually hid in the shade, after all. Ghost followed behind you, barely disturbing the water with each step.
âWatch your toes,â he warned dryly. âDonât want them bitten off.â
You splashed water at him halfheartedly, but you were too late to realize how close heâd been standingâthe spray struck all the way up his shins. Ghost startled for half a second before retaliating with equal force. You gasped as cold water splashed across your skin, then dropped your skirt and splashed him harder in return.
And then you and him were play-fighting in the river like children, the crabs forgotten completely. This entire situation was so ridiculousâfacing off against a knight in the lowest-stakes battle of his lifeâthat you couldnât help the laughter bubbling out of you, loud and unbecoming. The sound echoed through the trees, startling a few birds from their branches and dissolving your earlier unease away with it. Ghost made a strange breathy sound in response, unfamiliar enough that it took you a moment to recognize it as a laugh.Â
âWe definitely scared them away,â you wheezed, struggling to catch your breath.
âNext time,â Ghost said, before splashing you once more. You let him get away with it, choosing not to question how confidently he assumed youâd be doing this again.
***
It was dusk by the time you returned to the cottage, still too early to sleep. You didnât want to sit around indoors in damp clothes, but Ghost beat you to the hearth, starting a fire without you having to ask. You picked raspberries from the garden and sat in your usual spot as he stoked the flames, depositing half the fruit in his outstretched palm once heâd settled beside you.
âYouâre very capable,â you told him, because he was.
Ghost fixed you with a hard look. âWas that a joke?â
âI was being serious,â you complained. You ate a raspberry and let him wait while you chewed. âBut now I take it back.â
He didnât respond, studying you instead. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your chin against them, tilting your head sideways so you could study him back. You hadnât sat this close together since that afternoon in the tavern, but if Ghost was the one initiating it, then it had to be permissible. Besides, there was nobody else around to make you second-guess yourself, nobody to stare or whisper or speculate. You could be indecent in peace.
âYouâre capable, too,â he said, somewhat unevenly. He still hadnât rolled up his mask to eatâmaybe he wouldn't do it with you staring at him so intently, but you didnât want to look away.
âIâve had a lot of practice doing things on my own.âÂ
Then you fought the urge to smack yourselfâwhy did you have to say that so dramatically? Still, Ghost didnât react the way you feared he might; if anything, he seemed to be genuinely considering your words.
âDid your brother help you?â he asked.
âOnly when he wanted to,â you said. âHe was young, so I usually just let him play instead."
You thought of how you used to wade into the river with him perched on your back, pretending you were two explorers embarking on a grand, fantastical journey. Sometimes youâd fake a stumble just to make him squeal, threatening to drop him into the current, only to catch him again before he could fall in, every single time.
âYou mustâve raised him well.â
Ghostâs voice had gone so uncharacteristically soft that it made pinpricks of heat erupt across your skin, warmer than the hearth itself. You wanted more of it, wanted to coax out at least one more sentence of praise, but that desire came tangled with the understanding that it would be significantly easier if all of thisâhis presence, his attention, the intensity of his gazeâwere to cease at once, rather than slowly thinning out the way it had been since his Guard arrived. But that was beyond your control, and sulking would be of no use. You could savor his company while you still had it.
You fixed him with your best imitation of his glare. âWas that a joke?â
Without answering, he tossed a berry at you with perfect aim. It bounced harmlessly off your forehead; you caught it before it could tumble into the grass, wiped it against your sleeve, and popped it into your mouth. Ghost immediately averted his eyes to the fire. You continued watching him, hazy in the rising smoke.
***
The following week, you sat grinding herbs at the table with your back facing the door, but you could tell Soap had arrived without even having to see him. He didnât knock, for starters, and the way the hinges squeaked gave you the impression that he was making no effort whatsoever to be discreet.
âCome outside, lass,â he called. You glanced over your shoulder, and just as youâd suspected, there he wasâcheeks flushed pink, hair crookedly tousled by the wind. âGot somethinâ to show you.â
Dutifully, you rose and followed him outside, expecting a mildly amusing sight at best, perhaps a bird with unusual plumage or another unfortunate bounty of courting gifts abandoned at the edge of your land. Instead, you found Ghost with a horse.
Not merely a horse, but a stallionâthe most ferociously beautiful one youâd ever seen. With the limited equestrian knowledge youâd picked up from Ghost, you could tell the animal was exceptionally cared for, with hefty muscle and a lustrous mane. He stood noticeably larger than Soapâs horse, which made sense considering Ghost himself was built larger than most men. His coat was a deep mahogany that gleamed rosily beneath the sunlight, while his forehead was speckled white like scattered stars.
Ghost led the stallion toward you, keeping a gentle hold on the reins. âGot a horse.â
âI gathered as much,â you said, though without any malice; you were too fixated on the animal to bother with pestering him. âHeâs so handsome, isnât he?â
Soap snickered at something under his breath to Ghost, though you couldnât make out the words. While the two knights lapsed into yet another one of their silent, inscrutable conversations, you stepped closer and cautiously pet the stallionâs neck just as youâd indirectly been taught, recoiling only slightly when the animal huffed a burst of warm air against your shoulder.
The movement immediately caught Ghostâs attention. He turned back toward you, watching carefully while Soap trailed off to climb atop his own horse.
âHave you named him?â you asked.
Ghost rested a hand against the stallionâs neck, right alongside yours. âNot yet.â
Before you could ask anything else, Soap shouted your name brightly from atop his horse, guiding the animal in a giddy little circle. âFancy a ride?â
Naturally, you wound up seated behind Ghost again. You expected only a short round along the property, just to acquaint yourself with the stallion, who appeared docile and obedient to each of Ghostâs commands, but Soap took the lead and continued further down the path.Â
For the very first time in your life, you set off with no clear destination in mind. At first, you assumed he and Ghost might be scouting the area, but the ease with which they navigated each bend and fork in the path betrayed that theyâd already explored this stretch of village before. They talked as they rode, cryptically recounting some campaign theyâd fought in years past, trading unfamiliar names and places back and forth like pawns in a game only they knew the rules of. You remained quiet, blocking them out in favor of listening to the horses, to the steady clop of their hooves against packed earth.
The path wound past cottages and open farmland, through golden-green fields just about ready for harvest. A gaggle of children stopped to gawk at your small party, shrieking in amazement when Soap urged his stallion into a sprint before reining it back into an easy trot. Further ahead, a farmer paused his work and lifted a weathered hand in greeting, squinting against the afternoon sun. It was odd to pass them all by horseback, to sit elevated above the same people you usually stood among.Â
âAre you alright back there?â Soap eventually asked, slowing his horse to fall in line with you.
âOf course,â you chirped, forcing yourself to match his earlier levity. âIâve just never done this before.â
Ghost huffed. âBeen on a horse?â
âBeen on a horse forâfor leisure,â you corrected. Your gaze drifted over the passing fields before settling on the broad sweep of Ghostâs back.Â
âYouâve been missing out, then,â Soap crowed. You knew he wasnât trying to be rude on purpose, but his words didnât strike you as particularly pleasant, either. âCannae say youâve truly lived till youâveââ
âYou arenât missing out on anything,â Ghost interrupted, without looking back at you. âBarely have time for it ourselves.â
That managed to soothe you, just for the time being. You leaned forward to speak closer to Ghostâs ear, the same way you had the first time youâd ridden behind him. âNow that youâve got a horse, will you be leaving soon?â
âProbably.â
âBut the festivalââ
It was your turn to be sharply cut off, right as the path narrowed beneath a crooked-leaning tree.Â
âWatch your head,â he barked out.
Together, you ducked beneath a low branch, but your attempt was far clumsier than his. Your forehead bumped awkwardly against his backâinstinctively, you pressed a palm between his shoulder blades to steady yourself. Ghost immediately went rigid, his entire back tensing beneath your touch. He relaxed a half-second later, but by then youâd already snatched your hand away, settling it back against the stallion.Â
âSorry,â you whispered.Â
You werenât sure why you were attempting to be subtle when Soap was already unabashedly grinning at you both, but you kept up the act for Ghostâs sake, just in case.
âDonât apologize,â Ghost muttered, before flashing a warning look toward Soap, who was clearly on the verge of making another crude, speculative comment. âAnd donât you start.â
***
âI need you to read somethinâ for me.â
Ghost would be leaving tomorrow. Heâd told you as much earlier in the day, and now the day was nearly over and he was seated at the edge of your bed, clearly ready to retire for the night. Meanwhile, you were still puttering around the cottage, uselessly rearranging your shelves for the second time that evening. You couldnât bring yourself to lie down just yet; once you did, youâd have nothing left to do except stare at the ceiling and think.
âCanât you do it yourself?â you asked indignantly, adjusting a vial rack that had already been safely tucked away from the edge.
âIâm busy.â
You turned around to find him doing absolutely nothing. âClearly, you arenât.â
âYou owe me a favor,â he insisted.Â
Of course heâd choose to collect it nowâtoday was his final opportunity to do soâbut what you didnât understand was why he was making the same exact request you had. Perhaps, if you played along, heâd offer up another detail or two in explanation. You crossed the room and intentionally stopped a few paces in front of him, holding yourself back from standing directly between his legs.Â
Ghost handed you a scrap of parchment. It wasnât the fancy sort you associated with merchants or nobility, but the same inexpensive kind your brother used whenever he wrote to you, with a few lines sprawled across one side in plain black ink. As you looked it over, you attempted to take a deep breath, but your throat snagged mid-inhale. Ghost sat and watched you stupidly cough into the crook of your elbow, betraying no reaction when you thrust the parchment back into his grasp.Â
âI need to tell you something,â you said unsteadily, once youâd regained some semblance of composure.
âTell me, then.â
You desperately wished for Soap to burst through the door and drag you away on another pointless horse ride. You wished for Gaz to appear and launch into another informal conversation about money and marriage prospects and freshly baked bread. You wouldâve even accepted Price interrogating your mental aptitude if it meant escaping this situation. Was this really how Ghost wanted to spend your final evening together? Not bickering or reminiscing or even quietly basking in each otherâs company, but embarrassing you instead?
âSir Ghost,â you began slowly, hovering at the very precipice of humiliation. âIâm illiterate.â
Ghost silently considered the revelation. It shouldnât have been particularly shockingâthe vast majority of villagefolk couldnât read or writeâbut youâd built your entire life around your competence. People trusted you to help them because they believed you knew things. Admitting ignorance, especially the same sort of ignorance they carried themselves, felt like itâd threaten your very livelihood.
âI figured,â Ghost said. âYou were looking at that map upside down in the tavern.â
You wanted to snatch the parchment back from him, tear it apart into a million tiny pieces, and scatter them all throughout the forest. Or maybe itâd be a quicker alternative to shove the paper straight into your mouth instead, to eat it whole so that neither of you would have to see it ever again. Stubbornly, you forced yourself to study the inked lines, attempting to decipher meaning from their shape the same way youâd tried with the map. There werenât enough words for a proper message, unless it was some sort of military code. But if it were, Ghost wouldnât be showing it to you at all.Â
âIs it an address?â
âSâwhere weâre headed next.â His voice went gritty at the edges, even harsher than usual. âThought Iâd give it to you, in case you wanted to write.â
Write to him.
âIâm sorry,â you said helplessly.
What you couldnât bring yourself to say was that scribes were expensive, that you already rationed your money cautiously enough just to write to your brother a handful of times a year. You kept his letters tucked away in the chest partially so you wouldnât be tempted to burn through your savings replying to each and every one. But beyond that, you couldnât simply reject thisânot when it was such a momentous thing for him to offer, especially given his profession.
It was nearly impossible to imagine he hadnât discussed it with his Guard beforehand, or at the very least weighed the decision carefully on his own. Maybe you could send Ghost a letter in the wintertime, splurge on it if the rush of the cold months brought in enough money. You werenât sure what youâd even share with himâperhaps a few stories about the women you met, or bland descriptions of the thousand repetitive tasks you completed every day and week and month and year. Nothing exciting enough to stand level with the life he lived, but maybe he already knew to temper his expectations. Maybe he preferred it that way.Â
Before you could think better of it, you stepped directly into the slot between Ghostâs legs. His hands shifted slightly, pausing for a moment near your hips before settling atop his own knees.
âI like being alone,â you blurted out, swallowing hard before continuing. âI know itâs uncommon, but I really do prefer it. I like doing things how I want them, and I like taking care of myself. But Iâitâs been nice having you around.â
And then you waited for him to finally tell you everything. You wanted a confession in return for all the pieces of your life youâd already shown him, some grand unveiling of the mysteries youâd staunchly avoided pressing him about. Who had poisoned him all those weeks ago, what his real name was, why heâd remained with you even after his Guard arrived; where heâd come from, why heâd stayed in your village, what sort of upbringing had turned him into this odd, secretive man sitting at the edge of your bed.Â
Instead, Ghost just looked at you for a long moment and said, âYou should go to sleep, girl.â
The dismissal felt like heâd dumped a bucket of freezing water over your head. It wasnât fair of him to act as though what youâd just admitted could be blamed on nothing more than fatigue, as if one nightâs rest might dissolve your feelings entirely by morning. But if he did acknowledge this properly, with all the sword-sharp attention and precision you knew he was capable of, then what? You couldnât even write.Â
âI donât like it when you call me that,â you said, not only because it was true, but also because it was the only way you could protest against him.Â
âWhat should I call you instead?â
âMy name is fine.â
Ghost said it just once; you shivered despite yourself. In response, that unfamiliar, breathy sound escaped him againâhis laugh. It should've irritated you, but instead you merely felt relief that at least one of you could find a trace of amusement within this situation.Â
Then he set the parchment aside and reached for your hands. You let him take them exactly how he wanted, leaning into the rough scrape of his skin against your own, warm and calloused and real. He interlaced your fingers together and held them up as if on display for you both. Standing between his knees, you allowed yourself to fall pliant, wondering for one dizzy, dangerous moment if he might draw you even closer.Â
He didnât. That was probably a good thing, you thought, because then all of this would truly become too much to bear.
***
The next morning, Ghost left shortly after breakfastâyour last meal togetherâpromising you heâd come back to say goodbye before he left for good. You were in the garden when he finally came back, hands aching from pulling weedsâitâd been Ghostâs chore while heâd stayed with you, but now that he was leaving, youâd have to reacquaint yourself with the task.
An occasion like this shouldâve been accompanied with rain or fog or, at the very least, a dense overcast. Instead, the sky was mercilessly bright, warming you and the soil and the plants down to the very root. Ghost was dressed in full armor, just as heâd been the day you first met him. His sword rested properly at his hip, secured within a polished new scabbard. He sat astride his stallion, outfitted in fresh leather tack, and rode all the way up to the garden like heâd come to carry you away, but he simply dismounted and gave the horse a firm pat against his flank.Â
âFound a name for him,â he said by way of greeting.
You reached out, smoothing your hands over the stallionâs pinkish-mahogany coat. âWhat is it?â
Ghost looked at the garden, then back at you, then at the garden again. He seemed uncertain, shifting beneath your attention in a way that reminded you of when heâd asked whether he could continue staying with you even after his Guard arrived. You felt a twinge of sympathy at his discomfort, but you refused to relent, staring into his eyes so intently that you were certain theyâd haunt your dreams for weeks to come. Dreams youâd wake from alone, in the bed youâd have to relearn how to sleep in after all that time on the floor.
âRaspberry,â he said at last.
Your hands stilled against the horseâs neck. âWhy?â
âHeâs the same color.â
There werenât enough words in the world to contain what that did to you, so you threw your arms around him instead.
It was a stilted embrace, more like hugging a blank vessel than a real person. Ghostâs armor dug into your cheek and chest while his arms settled stiffly around your waist, so hesitant that it felt like he was barely holding you at all. You found yourself wishing youâd done this earlier, before heâd hidden his skin away beneath all of this metal, but you doubted he wouldâve accepted your touch so readily otherwise.
You didnât tell him it was the first proper hug youâd initiated in years. The women you helped usually embraced you in gratitude after successful deliveries, and their unruly young children sometimes clung your legs until you gently shook them off. But those moments had always been fleeting, inconsequential. This was different because of how badly you wanted it, because of how youâd consciously chosen it first.
âWill we meet again?â you asked, with your face still smushed against his breastplate.
His answer came out muffled through the armor. âI canât promise you anything.â
âYou donât have to.â You drew back just enough to look up at him, keeping your arms looped around his middle. âI justâif you were able to, would you?â
âI would.â
He uttered it so quietly that you nearly dismissed it as wishful thinking, a foolish invention of your own imagination. But then you remembered how intentionally heâd held your hands yesterday, how deliberate heâd been whenever he touched you the handful of times before. How readily he was accepting you now. This had to be real.
You stepped away and withdrew the small jar hidden in your dress pocket, accepting that you were no different from the market girls after all. You could be older than them, more independent, more capable of maintaining your own livelihood, but deep down, you still wanted the same impossible things they did. You stood exactly the way they had before him: a village girl presenting a silly, earnest gift to a mysterious knight in hopes of being chosen.
âThis is for your scars,â you said, your heart painfully lodged somewhere in your throat as you held out the salve. âI made it for the mother you took me to visit, but I had extra. It should help with irritation once the weather turns cold.â
Ghost accepted the jar warily, balancing it in the center of his gloved palm as if he was afraid he might accidentally crush it. For what would likely be the final time, you longed to see his face. You wanted to know whether he was surprised, whether he was pleased, whether he was feeling anything at all beneath that dreadful silver skull. More selfishly still, you wanted something tangible from him in return, beyond an address you could barely useâsome object to anchor your thoughts to once he was gone. Memories shifted with time, softened around the edges no matter how fiercely you tried to preserve them. But you knew itâd be unfair of you to ask, so you didnât.
âThank you,â he said roughly, with the same begrudging gentleness heâd shown you the night before. His armor shone so brightly beneath the sun that it almost hurt to look at him.
You hugged him again. It was unnecessary and overwrought, especially given the length of your first embrace, but he allowed it anyway.
***
Taglist (comment if you'd like to be added!): @xncasi @nbdblogger @alyenna @delta98-idk
đŹđźđŠđŠđđ«đČ; getting shot at apparently has its benefits, one of them being that you get to meet your future husband.
đđ°; hospital setting, descriptions of gunshot wounds, post surgery pain, swearing, military inaccuracies, reader and ghost are sarcastic asf, hurt/comfort, fluff, itâs 6k words long.
đ/đ§: so many of you loved my lieutenant!reader drabble and it motivated me to write the coupleâs first meet. A thank you for reaching 1.5k followers<3
Everything the doctor says reaches you through a thick, cottony haze. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station struggling through static, words slurring together into meaningless fragments of medical jargon you neither have the energy nor the patience to decipher. The anesthesia still clings to your veins, heavy and nauseating, making your thoughts sluggish and your temper dangerously short.
The room smells sharply of antiseptic, sterile enough to sting the inside of your nose. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeps in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Footsteps echo faintly beyond the door. Metal clinks against metal. Every sound feels amplified, scraping against the inside of your skull.
Then the pain starts settling in.
At first it's distant, muted beneath the fading anesthesia. But slowly, steadily, it crawls up your thigh like fire spreading beneath your skin. Deep. Throbbing. Relentless. It coils around the muscle and bone until even breathing feels difficult. You suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your fingers twitching weakly against the stiff hospital sheets.
âWe managed to save your leg and restore blood flow to the severed artery. That tourniquet saved your life, Lieutenant.â
You can finally make out enough of the doctor's words to understand him, though opening your eyes feels like dragging sandpaper across your skull. When you manage it anyway, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stab into your vision so violently you immediately regret it. White. Endless white. It burns behind your eyes.
âYouâll be off active duty for several months,â the doctor continues, voice calm and practiced. âYouâll need physiotherapy. We can discuss the details of your recovery before discharge.â
His voice sounds farther away now, as though heâs standing at the end of a tunnel instead of beside your bed.
âOkay,â you rasp out, "thank you."
Even speaking hurts.
You try shifting your weight, desperate to find a position that doesnât feel like someone is driving nails through your leg, but the slightest movement sends a violent flare of pain through your thigh. Your entire body tenses instinctively. A strained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it.
The doctor offers you a sympathetic look, scribbles something onto the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, then finally leaves you alone.
Silence settles over the room or something close to silence. Machines continue humming softly around you. Somewhere outside, muffled voices drift down the hallway alongside the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors. The IV taped to your arm pulls unpleasantly every time you move your arm and your mouth tastes stale and metallic.
You should probably sleep, let the anesthetic finish wearing off, but even lifting a hand to rub at your burning eyes feels exhausting.
With a frustrated exhale, you give up trying to get comfortable. Nothing helps. The pain isn't worth the effort. Instead, you slowly roll your head from side to side against the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness lodged in your neck.
Thatâs when you notice the figure in the bed several meters away.
At first, your blurry vision struggles to make sense of him. Just a shape beneath dim hospital blankets. Broad shoulders. Dark clothes folded over the chair beside the bed. Then your focus sharpens enough to realize, the figure belongs to a man. Your brows knit together immediatelyâyou couldâve sworn the menâs and womenâs recovery rooms were separated.
As if sensing your stare, the man slowly turns his head toward you.
The movement is sluggish, clearly painful. His face comes into view little by little, littered with scars, rough around the edges and pale beneath the hospital lighting. Thereâs faint surprise in his eyes when he realizes youâre awake, quickly followed by visible confusion at the expression youâre giving him, like he's the reason you're stuck in that hospital bed.
Before he can tell you off for it, you speak first.
âWhy are you here?â
Your voice comes out rough and hoarse, stripped of its usual sharp authority.
âToo many casualties,â he says after a moment, his tone low and gravelly. âHospitalâs full. Had to stick you in a spare room.â
You blink slowly, processing his words through the lingering fog in your head, followed by a soft nod.
âOkay.â
And just like that, silence returns.
ââ*:ă»
You canât sleep, not even close.
The pain keeps gnawing at your leg, the mattress feels too stiff, the IV needle in your arm is irritating enough to make you want to rip it out entirely, the smell of disinfectant hangs thick in the air and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Every distant sound from the hallway drills into your skull.
But worse than all of it is the realization sitting heavy in your chest: You canât walkânot yet, at least.
A lieutenant reduced to lying helplessly in a hospital bed. Useless. The thought sours your mood almost instantly.
Eventually, the boredom outweighs your irritation.
You glance toward the man again. âWhat happened to you?â
He doesnât look at you this time.
âGot shot,â his answer is short, straight forward and his tone awfully flat. âUpper abdomen,â he adds a second later, followed by a quiet groan as he carefully shifts against the bed.
âOh, fuck,â you mutter weakly.
âYeah,â despite hisâstill flatâtone, thereâs dry humor buried underneath it. âDidnât hit anything vital, though.â
âLucky, I guess.â
âStill feels like shit.â
A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and to your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches upward into something resembling half a smile. The room feels a slightly less unbearable after that.
âWhatâs your rank?â you ask once the silence stretches too long again.
âLieutenant.â
That catches your attention immediately. You study him more carefully now, eyes tracing over the sharp lines of his profile. The broad frame, the military posture even while half-drugged and injured, the roughness in his voice.
âSAS?â you ask cautiously and he gives a small grunt of confirmation.
Weird. You know the faces of almost every lieutenant attached to the force. At the very least, you know their names, but his face doesnât ring any bells at all.
It takes a few moments before the realization clicks into place, making your eyes narrow slightly.
âYouâre Simon Riley?â
That finally gets a proper reaction out of him. His head turns toward you again, slower this time, and you catch the unmistakable flicker of surprise crossing his features. A tad of confusion and suspicion too.
How the hell did you figure that out?
âIâm pretty sure itâs you,â you continue, voice quieter now. âOnly lieutenant whose face Iâve never seen.â
For a moment, he just stares at you. âYes. Itâs me.â
Your brows lift in amusement despite the pain pulsing through your leg.
Well.
Thatâs one hell of a roommate assignment.
ââ*:ă»
The Simon 'Ghost' Riley is lying three beds away from you in hospital issued clothes that looked one size too small.
The name alone carried enough reputation to make most recruits stand straighter. Half the stories about him sounded fabricated, stitched together from barracks gossip and post-mission exaggerations. Cold as winter steel. Mean enough to scare grown men into silence. Efficient enough to make enemies disappear before they realized they were being hunted.
âYouâre staring,â he says flatly.
You blink, realizing you absolutely are. âJust making sure youâre real.â
His visible eye narrows slightly. âDisappointed?â
âA little,â you admit. âThought youâd be uglier.â A rough chuckle leaves him, it's low and brief, like the sound surprised even him.
âYou always this chatty?â he asks eventually.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, scraped raw around the edges like gravel dragged across concrete. The words come slower now, dulled by painkillers and fatigue, but thereâs still something dryly amused underneath them.
You shift slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, immediately regretting it when your thigh throbs in protest beneath the layers of bandages. The pain has gone from sharp to heavy now, deep and pulsing, like someone lodged molten metal into the bone and left it there to cool.
âJust heavily medicated, don't get used to it,â you mumble and he just grunts in response.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly above you, one of them flickering every few seconds in a way thatâs starting to feel personal. The air conditioner hums somewhere near the ceiling, pushing cold recycled air through the room that smells faintly of antiseptic, old coffee, and hospital linens washed a thousand times too many.
You slowly turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. He looks terrible. Not in an insulting wayâhe got shot, and he looks like it, which is absolutely normal. His skinâs paler than before beneath the harsh lighting, shadows sitting dark beneath his eyes. The bandaging visible above the collar of his shirt disappears beneath the fabric wrapping around his torso. One arm rests across his abdomen instinctively in a protective manner.
Somehow he still manages to look intimidating lying half-dead in a hospital bed. Honestly impressive. You can't imagine how much more intimidating he gets when he's on duty. You have to admit: the mask really matches his demeanor.
"You're staring. Again."
"I've got the Ghost laying a few meters away, I'd say it's understandable"
"I'd say it's rude."
âYou're the man people describe like some kind of cryptid in tactical gear talking to me. It is understandable.â
Simonâs brow furrows almost immediately.
âYou're dramatic.â
"Oh bollocks," you momentarily let you head drop to the side, your entire face visible to him, âyou've got quite the reputation.â
His lips crack into a faint smirk, "the mask helps."
"Definitely," you agree with him, âprobably terrorize recruits with it.â
"Efficiently so," that earns him a low chuckle from you.
You sink lower into the pillow with a tired exhale, letting your head rest fully against the mattress for the first time since waking up. The pain killers are finally settling in properly now, smoothing the jagged corners off everything around you. The painâs still there, buried beneath your skin and stitched into your leg, but it feels farther away. Manageable enough not to grit your teeth through every breath.
Your limbs feel strangely heavy, oddly warm, like gravity suddenly doubled. It's probably the medication making you groggy.
Ghost watches you from across the room for a moment before speaking again.
âYou look less murderous now.â
You crack one eye open toward him. âDonât worry,â you mumble sleepily. âStill judging your face.â
"Scars 're a turn off?" he raises his eyebrows.
"Quite the opposite" you respond, the words escaping your lips before your brain could process them.
"What if I told you my back's filled with 'em?"
"Don't tease me like that, lieutenant."
Then air leaves his nose sharply in something dangerously close to a laughânot a full one, though. He probably hasnât laughed properly since birth, but itâs there enough to count and you look absurdly pleased with yourself.
ââ*:ă»
Morning arrives without permission, not gently either.
Your eyes crack open reluctantly, every inch of your body still wrapped in that strange post-surgery heaviness where even existing feels physically expensive. Pale morning light bleeds weakly through the narrow hospital window, washing the room in cold blue-grey instead of the aggressive fluorescent white from yesterday, since the overhead lights are off.
The world feels quieter, softer around the edges. You're not used to this. Staying in bed after waking up, taking in the silence of the early morning. It feels odd. You try to enjoy the calmness of it all, until you do the mistake of moving your legs to get comfortable. Pain immediately shoots through your veins in your entire body, tensing up, a low groan escaping your lips, "fuck me."
"Mornin' to you too." the gruff voice of your roommate slices through the quiet morning.
His shirt hangs crooked across broad shoulders, his buzzcut already slightly overgrown from being stuck in bed for the last five days. The morning light catches against the rough edges of his scars, softening some and sharpening others. He looks less intimidating half-awake like this.
âGo back to sleep,â you groan, eyes shut tightly, waiting patiently for the pain to subside.
âTempting,â he mumbles, "should I call a nurse?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Shut up."
The agonizing pain finally dies down and you feel like you can breath again.
"I hate this."
"Everyone does."
The room falls into a quieter silence afterwardânot awkward this time. Outside the window, rain taps softly against the glass in uneven rhythms. Somewhere farther down the hall, a nurse laughs at something muffled beyond your hearing.
âFirst time being benched?â he leans back carefully against the pillows, studying you for a moment with that same unreadable expression he seems to wear instead of normal human emotions. You don't glance toward him, it feels wrongâbeing this vulnerable, exposed. Instead you stare straight ahead at the ceiling tiling, "that obvious?â
âA bit.â
You exhale slowly through your nose. âI donât know how to sit still,â the honesty comes easier than expected. Maybe because neither of you has enough energy left to pretend much right now. "Feels wrong," you admit quietly.
Simon gives a faint hum of understanding. It's not out of pity for you, he knows exactly what you're feeling.
âYeah,â he says after a moment. âGets ugly in your head when you stop moving.â
The words settle heavily between you.
You look at him more carefully, past all the scars, the sharp edges of his features. You stare at the exhaustion carved into his eyes, the stiffness in every movement he makes, the instinctive way his hand still guards his side even while resting, like his brain refuses to believe he's safe. Now, Ghost feels less like a myth and more like a man held together by scar tissue and stubbornness.
"Any advice?" you ask, returning to lazily staring at the ceiling.
"Try not to kill yourself."
"Oh, okay," you exhale deeply, "you've got more pessimistic shit to say?"
"It's true."
"Who on this bloody earth gives that as a piece of advice?"
"I'm no motivational speaker." he defends himself.
"Could've fooled me," that makes him huff out another breath through his nose.
Hours pass strangely after that. Slow and syrup-thick beneath pain medication and rainstorms and terrible television neither of you actually watches, but the noise is a good enough distraction from your thoughts. Nurses drift in and out checking vitals. Time moves a lot differently when you're stuck in a hospital bed.
ââ*:ă»
 By the third day, you learn two things about Simon Riley.
Firstly, he wakes up violently alert, not like a soldier ready to fight the enemy, but more like a man trying to fight his life's demons away.
One second asleep, the next fully conscious like somebody flipped a switch inside him. Eyes sharp, his breathing steady and his hand already halfway toward the knife that isnât there before reality catches up.
The first time you witness it, a nurse accidentally drops a clipboard outside the door. The crack echoes down the hallway. It has Simon jolting upright instantly with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his body locking tight enough to snap steel cables, eyes darting wildly around the room for half a second before settling, before he realizes he's at the hospital and the tension drains in visible increments, even though his jaw remains tight.
You pretend not to notice. Mostly because the brief glimpse of genuine panic beneath all that control feels strangely private.
Secondly, he hates asking for help with almost pathological dedication.
You discover this around noon when he decides, for reasons known only to himself and whatever ancient curse fuels male stubbornness, that he can absolutely reach the cabinet across the room without assistance.
Despite being four days post-op with a bullet wound on his chest and the shit ton of painkillers.
You wake up from a light nap to find him standing. Debatable if that's even considered standing.
One hand grips the IV pole while the other braces hard against the wall, his shoulders tense. His face has gone concerningly pale with effort.
You stare at him for a long moment.
âRiley.â
âI got it.â
You shift slightly, as much as your wound will allow you, "Simon."
"Said I got it."
âYou look like one inconvenience away from meeting God.â
â'M fine.â
âI'll smash the IV poll on your head. Go sit down.â
His visible eye narrows immediately.
âThought ya leg didnât work.â
âTemporarily,â you shoot back. âUnlike your brain apparently.â
A dangerous silence follows.
Then, somehow, he takes another step.
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people probably wouldnât catch it, but you do. His breathing shallows almost immediately afterward.
You sigh heavily.
âCongratulations,â you mutter sarcastically, "you're a fuckin' idiot."
âI was getting water.â
âThere is literally a button beside your bed to ask for help.â
âI can do it on my own.â
You blink at him.
"No, you can't. You got shot, for fuck's sake.â you say flatly. âYouâre allowed to ask for help, justâgo sit down.â
His mouth twitches faintly at that. Youâre strangely caring with him. Part of him likes it more than he wants to admit. Likes that his name, and whatever ugly reputation dragged itself all the way to your team, didnât make you flinch. Likes, embarrassingly enough, the way you called him a fucking idiot like it was the easiest thing in the world.
But thereâs another part of him that hates this. Hates that the first time he meets someone as pretty as you, heâs a complete bloody wreck who can barely stand on his own two feet. You got shot and still somehow look gorgeous. He got shot and looks half-dead.
Doesnât feel fair.
ââ*:ă»
The next morning is quiet, wrapped in rain and pale grey light.
The hospital room looks softer this early, less clinicalâsort off. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead remain switched off, leaving only the dim glow of dawn filtering through the wide window across the room. Rainwater slides slowly down the glass in uneven trails, blurring the city skyline into streaks of silver and charcoal. Somewhere far below, traffic hums faintly through wet streets. Tires hiss against pavement. A siren wails in the distance before fading back into the rain.
You wake slowly at first, trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness while pain medication drags heavily through your veins. Everything feels warm and sluggish beneath the blankets. Your thoughts drift lazily in disconnected fragments. The scent of antiseptic lingers thick in the air, tangled with stale coffee from the nursesâ station and the faint metallic smell of rain pressing against the cracked window seal.
Then the pain hitsâone brutal pulse tears through your thigh hard enough to wrench a broken sound from your throat before your eyes are even fully open.
Breath vanishes from your lungs instantly.
Your body locks around the agony, muscles seizing beneath the blankets while another pulse crashes through your leg like a live wire buried beneath skin and bone. Heat spreads viciously through the injury, deep and swollen and unbearable, pressure building inside the muscle until it feels like the stitches themselves might split apart.
Your eyes snap open.
The ceiling above you blurs immediately.
âOh, fuckââ
The words barely make it out.
Your fingers twist violently into the sheets as instinct takes over, your body curling inward around the pain despite knowing movement only makes it worse. The bandages around your thigh suddenly feel too tight. Too hot. Every heartbeat sends another sickening throb through the damaged muscle, radiating upward into your hip and lower spine until even breathing becomes difficult.
Cold sweat prickles along the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists sharply.
Another pulse hits.
White flashes behind your eyes.
For one terrifying second you genuinely think you might pass out.
Across the room, you hear movement, it's fast, sharp.
Simon wakes instantly. The mattress creaks beneath sudden weight, sheets rustle violently. Thereâs the sound of bare feet against polished floor before his voice cuts through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
âWhat happened?â still rough with sleep, lower than usual, but alert immediately after.
You try answering himâyou really do, but the pain swells again before words can form properly and all that leaves you instead is a strained gasp that sounds humiliatingly fragile in the quiet room.
You hate thisâhow helpless it feels. You hate how one moment later your breathing is ragged and labored.
Youâve spent years training your body into something dependable, useful, strong enough to survive things other people wouldnât. And now you can barely breathe through pain without feeling like youâre falling apart at the seams.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in your chest.
Simon reaches your bedside, his hand clutching his abdomenâhe had his stitches removed yesterday so it doesn't hurt the same when he's walking anymore, makes it easier to get to you.
Tears are already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes, you turn your face sharply toward the wall before he can see them, but it's too late.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight as he braces one hand carefully against the bed rail. You can feel his presence before you properly look at him. Warmth cutting through the cold recycled hospital air. The faint scent of soap and antiseptic clinging to his skin. The uneven rhythm of his breathing, slightly tighter now from moving too quickly.
âHey,â he says quietly, the word lands softer than expected.
You squeeze your eyes shut harder. Another wave of pain tears through your thigh and suddenly your breathing stutters apart completely. A broken noise slips from your throat before you can swallow it down, your entire body tightening instinctively around the pain.
Then his hand settles against your shoulder, instinctively you grab it and squeezeâhard, maybe too hard.
The contact startles him, you feel it immediately in the way he stills afterward, like reaching for you happened before he consciously decided to do it, but the pain is too much to care right now.
His palm feels warm, solid, steady. The weight of it anchors you enough that your breathing slows by the smallest fraction.
Still, embarrassment crashes over you almost immediately after.
âDonât,â you mutter weakly, voice rough around the edges.
Simonâs brows knit slightly.
âWhot?â
âDon't look at me like this,â the words come quieter than intended, raw enough that you instantly regret saying them out loud.
For a moment the room falls silent except for rain tapping softly against the window and the low mechanical hum of hospital equipment surrounding you both. Simon doesnât answer immediately. His hand remains where it is, holding yours tightly, grounding you.
âHowâm I looking at you?â
You donât answer, mostly because you donât know how to explain it. He is looking at you like youâre something fragile and your pain matters, like seeing you hurt bothers him more than he expected it to.
Another pulse of pain rolls through your leg and your composure cracks completely this time. Your breathing shudders sharply. Tears blur your vision despite every effort to stop them.
Humiliation burns hot beneath your skin.
You lift a trembling hand to cover your face instinctively.
The movement is weak.
Exhausted.
Simon goes very still beside you, before you feel his hand slide slowly from your palm until his fingers close carefully around your other wrist instead. Not restraining, just holding on.
Your pulse jumps strangely beneath his fingertips.
âYou need a nurse,â he says quietly.
âNo.â
The refusal comes too fast, you hear it yourself immediately, it's not stubborn this time, but something else, something weaker, more fragile.
Outside the window, rainwater races down the glass in silver streams while distant thunder rolls softly somewhere across the city. The room feels dim and close around both of you now, wrapped in early morning shadows and the quiet rhythm of your uneven breathing.
Simon studies your face for a long moment. Thereâs exhaustion carved into every line of your expression this morning. Shadows are darker beneath your eyes. Healing bruises fading yellow along the edge of your jaw. Your shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, the shorts you're wearing visible since your thrashing pulled the thin blanket to the very end of your feet. Your bandages around the gunshot are clean, that's good, you didn't bust a stitch and you're not bleeding out. But that doesn't mean you're not tired, you look exhausted. Despite all the sharp edges he usually keeps wrapped tightly around himself, thereâs something openly unsettled in his eyes right now that wasnât there before. Because of you, of your exhaustion, your pain.
Another wave of pain rolls through your leg, though weaker now, dulled slightly by whatever medication still lingers in your bloodstream. You suck in a shaky breath through your teeth.
Simonâs grip tightens instinctively around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to steady, to let you know he is here.
Your eyes lift toward his without meaning to, your free hand searching for something to hold onto. He immediately notices and your fingers interlock with your grip so tight you obscure normal blood flow to his fingers. His attention moves over you carefully, tracking every flicker of pain that crosses your expression like heâs trying to memorize how to soften it. It unravels something within you more than the pain does.
Nobodyâs ever looked at you that way before. It has your chest tightening strangely.
His jaw shifts slightly, gaze flicking away toward the rain-streaked window, but his hand never leaves yours.
The silence stretches. It's not awkward or comfortable either, just fullâheavy with things neither of you knows how to say.
Eventually, when your breathing returns to a steady rhythm, he exhales quietly through his nose, the sound roughened by exhaustion.
âScared me for a moment,â the confession comes so softly you almost think you imagined it it has your breath catching unexpectedly.
He doesnât look at you after saying it. His eyes stay fixed somewhere toward the floor instead, expression unreadable again except for the faint tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. Like he regrets letting the words slip out at all, but they settle warm and aching beneath your ribs anyway.
You stare at him, "me too." Without thinking, your fingers shift slightly against his hand, squeezing it, not like before, it's soft now and he goes completely still beneath the slight movement of your fingers.
Most people wouldnât even notice it, but you do. You feel it in the way the muscles in his hand tighten faintly before relaxing again, careful and controlled like every instinct inside him is suddenly being held back by force. His thumb shifts once against your skin, absentminded almost, brushing lightly over your the back of your hand.
The contact sends something warm and disorienting through you.
Outside, rain continues slipping down the windows in silver trails, turning the early morning skyline into a blur of pale concrete and distant lights. Thunder rolls low across the city again, softer now, like the storm is beginning to drift farther away. The room smells faintly of rainwater sneaking through old window seals, tangled with antiseptic and the bitter scent of stale coffee lingering from somewhere down the hall.
The silence settles around you slowly, thick without becoming uncomfortable. It feels oddly fragile now, as though one wrong word might crack whatever this strange new thing between you has quietly become overnight.
Your breathing finally begins to steady beneath the pain.
Your leg still throbs viciously beneath the bandages, deep enough to make your stomach twist every few seconds, but the sharpest edge of it has dulled into something survivable again. The agony no longer owns your entire body, exhaustion starts creeping in behind it instead, heavy and slow and impossible to fight.
That doesn't go unnoticed by Simon.
His gaze flicks briefly toward your face again, studying you with that same quiet intensity thatâs become strangely familiar over the last few days. Youâre beginning to realize Simon Riley pays attention to everything when he cares enough toâtiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, the way your fingers tense before pain hits harder.
It should feel invasive.
Instead it makes something low in your chest ache softly.
âYou should sleep,â he says eventually, voice roughened by exhaustion and something gentler buried beneath it.
The words settle into the dim room quietly.
You glance toward him properly for the first time since he crossed the room.
Up close like this, he looks exhausted in ways that go deeper than lack of sleep. The pale morning light softens the harsher angles of his face, catches silver against old scars and tired shadows beneath his eyes. His overgrown hair sits messily flattened from sleep, the collar of his shirt hangs unevenly near one shoulder, exposing the edge of white bandaging wrapped around his torso beneath.
He looks worn down. Human in a way Ghost never sounds in stories.
And suddenly you become sharply aware of the fact heâs still standing despite the pain he must be in himself. Your gaze drops instinctively toward the hand pressed unconsciously against his abdomen.
"You just got your stitches off. Go sit down," your tone is less demanding and more caring, it has Simonâs eyes flicking back toward you, one corner of his mouth twitching faintly upward. There it is, that tone he has grown quite fond of.
â'M fine.â
âGo lay down,â your tone is strict, matching at the slightest the one you use to bark orders.
"Said Iâm fine," he repeats dryly, before walking towards the room's far corner where a chair is discarded for visitors.
The scraping of the chair's legs against the floor stops you from asking what he's planning on doing. A moment later he is finally lowering himself carefully into the chair he dragged beside your bed instead of returning across the room. The movement is slow and controlled, tension tightening visibly across his shoulders as he settles back with obvious effort, a quiet breath slips through his nose afterward.
"Go lay down," you repeat, voice softer than before, the adrenaline from earlier completely wearing off by now.
"Negative."
"You're insufferable."
âHm.â
âYouâre injured.â you debate a second later.
âSoâre you.â
âYes, but Iâm clearly the more emotionally compelling patient.â
That finally earns you the smallest exhale of laughter. You hadnât realized how tense the air felt until that sound loosened it.
The rain outside begins falling harder again, tapping steadily against the windows now in soft rhythmic waves. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a nurse laughs quietly at something muffled beyond the walls before the sound disappears again beneath the hum of hospital machinery.
Your eyelids begin growing heavier.
Pain medication and exhaustion drag at you relentlessly now that the worst of the agony has passed. Still, you fight sleep instinctively. Partly because youâre afraid the pain will spike again the second you let your guard down. Mostly because Simon is still sitting beside you, and some selfish, odd part of you doesnât want him to leave yet.
Your fingers remain loosely tangled with his, but neither of you mentions it.
âYou donât have to stay over here,â you murmur eventually, voice quieter now from exhaustion.
Simon glances toward you.
âI know,â the answer comes immediately, but he chooses to stay, he wants to stay.
You stare at the rain for a long moment, watching droplets race one another down the glass while silence settles softly around the room again.
Your thoughts feel slow, heavy, dangerously honest around the edges. "I fucking hate this," you say quietly.
"You'll get used to it"
"That's what I'm afraid of," the confession hangs in the air.
"Everything about the job is scary."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You took a bullet. You're still here tryin' to recover to get back out there. That's something to be fucking proud of."
"I can't even walk."
"You got shot on the damn leg, give yourself some time."
"Still sucks."
After a long moment, his voice breaks the quiet.
âI know.â
Just two words, but they land heavily.
Because suddenly you realize he truly does, not in a hypothetical or sympathetic way. He knows exactly what it feels like to wake up for the first time changed by pain and wonder if the person left afterward still fits inside their own skin.
Your eyes drift toward him again without meaning to. Heâs already looking at you, his gaze quietly present in the dim morning light while rain shadows move softly across the room around him.
And for one suspended moment the hospital, the pain, the machines humming softly around you bothâall of it disappears beneath the simple realization that neither of you feels quite as alone as you did a week ago.
Simonâs gaze drops briefly toward your joined hands then returns to your face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression. It vanishes almost immediately beneath the familiar rough edges he wears like armor, but not before you catch it. That brief glimpse affects you far more than it should.
Simon shifts slightly in the chair beside you, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh visibly against him. His head tips back briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second too long before reopening again.
You study him quietly.
The tension still lingering around his mouth. The faint lines exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. The stubborn effort it clearly takes for him to stay awake despite his own injuries.
A strange tenderness catches you off guard.
âGo sleep,â you murmur softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly again.
âBossy.â
âYou like it.â
ââ*:ă»
 Night settles slowly around the hospital room, quiet and blue at the edges.
The overhead lights are turned off, leaving only the soft amber glow from the hallway slipping through the cracked door and the far away muted city lights beyond the rain-streaked windows. Somewhere outside, water still drips steadily from rooftops and fire escapes after the storm, the sound faint beneath the distant hum of traffic moving through wet streets.
Everything feels softer after dark. The hospital itself seems to exhale. Voices lower into murmurs beyond the walls. Footsteps grow less frequent. Machines continue their endless quiet beeping around you both, but even that begins blending into the atmosphere after a while, becoming less noise and more heartbeat.
At some point after the nurses finish their evening rounds and repeatedly tell him to return to his bedâadvice that he doesn't follow, he shifts his chair closer to your bed, close enough that he can rest his arm on the mattress, you let him. You like it.
Instead he sits beside you now, fingers occasionally brushing lightly against your forearm whenever either of you moves.
Tiny accidents that neither of you acknowledge.
Your leg still aches relentlessly beneath the bandages, but the pain medication has dulled it into something distant enough to tolerate. Warm heaviness settles through your body instead, leaving your thoughts slow and dangerously unguarded around the edges.
Simon sits close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, that you notice details you probably shouldnât: The rough scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw by the end of the day, the way his hands flex unconsciously whenever pain pulls through his healing abdomenâfingers curling slightly against his knee before relaxing again.
The strong hands, scarred knuckles, they're careful too, he is a sniper after all.
âYouâre staring again,â he murmurs quietly beside you, voice roughened by exhaustion.
You glance toward his face and immediately regret it because heâs already watching you, head tipped slightly back against the wall. The dim lighting softens the harsher planes of his face, shadows settling deep beneath tired eyes. He looks unfairly good like this, worn down enough to seem real. Dangerous enough to still make your pulse trip every time he looks directly at you.
âYou make it difficult not to,â you answer before thinking better of it.
The words settle into the quiet room between you.
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long before shifting downward briefly. Your mouth. Your throat. Then back up again.
A subtle movement.
Still enough to make warmth spread slowly through your chest.
âShould I be concerned ya flirt with the entire force like tha'?â he asks eventually.
Thereâs dry amusement in the question.
You study him for a second before answering.
âNo,â the honesty slips out easier than expected.
Simonâs expression changes almost imperceptibly afterward.
Not surprise exactly.
Just awareness.
The room feels smaller suddenly, neither of you looks away.
Your pulse feels loud in your own ears. You both let the silence settle, it doesn't feel awkward, or comfortable. Just something you've grown used to.
Several minutes pass before Simon glances toward you again, his gaze dropping briefly toward your leg before returning to your face.
âHow bad is it?â
âBetter now.â You answer without looking at him.
Something flickers behind his eye at thatârelief. It's real enough to affect you immediately.
No one should look that relieved over your comfort. No one should stay awake watching your breathing like it matters. But he does.
You look down briefly at your own hands twisted loosely in the blankets.
âYou stayed all day," the observation comes quieter than intended.
Simon leans his head back slightly against the wall again, âDidnât have anywhere else to be.â
He could have asked to have you transferred once a bed cleared. He could've left this room whenever he wanted. He could have disappeared back behind all those carefully built walls and sharp edges and distance, hide his face like he does with everyone. But he wanted you to see him like this, to stay next to you.
âYou know,â you murmur softly, âyouâre not nearly as cold as everyone says.â
Simonâs eyes drift toward you slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts faintly "Meds are doing their job."
"Oh?" you raise your brows, acting offended, "and here I thought I was special."
He rolls his eyes in response, still smirking faintly.
You let the silence linger again, it's somewhat comforting at this point. Charged with things you don't think you'll ever share with each other.
His eye drifts shut briefly before reopening again a second later, like he caught himself slipping. âYou should sleep,â you whisper.
Simon turns his head just enough to look at you properly. âEventually.â
You roll your eyes softly. âYouâre impossible.â
âIâve been told.â
Thereâs a quiet ease to it now, the kind that sneaks up on you without permission. Minutes pass by and you allow the quiet of the room to swallow you whole. Your gazes are fixed on anything but each other. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something more interesting than the hospital ceiling, youâve been staring at for the past three days while Simonâs stare blankly on the floor, lips slightly pursed into a thin line, deep in thought.
The sound of the rain from outside and of your breathing fills the lack of words.
âWe should go out once weâre discharged.â
His words are so casual it takes your brain a full second to process them. âAre you asking me out?â
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. âThought I was being obvious.â
A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and sleepy and a little disbelieving.
âYou know you'll have to put up with my limp, right?â you question a second later, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
Matching your expression he also raises a brow at you, entirely unimpressed, ânot a problem.â
You smirk satisfied with his response, tilting you head softly at him, âDate sounds fun."
â â âââ Ëâ simon "ghost" riley x fem!readerâ (âáŽÍ áŽÍ)â Ë
ââŠâ synopsis.â â domestic life with simon. đ§·â âșâ
â . âàœČđ¶. ă imagine â ăbeingâ simon'săâ wifeâ âź
Simon didnât think he could be a father.
Not because he didnât want to beâhe did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed heâd live long enough for it. He didnât think thereâd be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world.
But then you came. And then⊠she did.â đ
He was terrified.
When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, stillâthe kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.
He didnât say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.
âIâll keep you safe,â he whispered so quietly, it couldâve been a prayer.
He wasnât there when she was born.
Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. Heâd torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anythingâcursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.
But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her⊠saw her pink and alive and real in your armsâŠ
He broke.
He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his pastâsomething he never thought heâd be allowed to touch.
âSheâs so small,â he murmured, voice cracking.
âYeah,â you replied.
That night, he didnât sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.
Simon was awkward at first.
He held her like she might detonateâarms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.
He wouldnât say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldnât stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.
He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought youâd see.
She follows him everywhere.
Like a little ghost of her own.
He doesnât let many people see her. Doesnât post pictures. Doesnât talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.
Sheâs curious. Smart. A little quietâlike him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like sheâs decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.
He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when sheâs bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:
âShe wanted to. Didnât wanna say no.â
He teaches her how to be strongânot cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, heâs there before she can even call for him.
And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That itâs okay to be soft, but itâs also okay to be careful.
And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.
âLook, Daddy. Iâm just like you!â
âNo, sweetheart,â he says, and this time, he does smileâsmall, but real. âYouâre stronger than I ever was.â
Simon is a man full of ghosts.
But when heâs with her, they quiet.
Youâve seen it.
The way his shoulders relax when sheâs in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, âYou be good for Mum, yeah? Iâll be back.â
He hates going.
Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.
But every returnâwhen she runs to him screaming âDaddy!â and tackles his legs with her little armsâthatâs what mends it.
He doesnât know if heâs doing it right. Heâs always afraid heâs too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him heâs the safest place she knows.
And sometimes, when the house is quiet and sheâs asleep in the next room, heâll hold you close and whisper,
âThank you.â
Sheâs eight now.
She tells people her dad is a superhero.
Simon doesnât correct her.
He doesnât know what version of him sheâs seeingâwhat stories sheâs crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesnât know what heâs done. What heâs capable of. To her, heâs just⊠strong. Invincible. Safe.
He doesnât deserve it. But he lives for it.
There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and sheâs tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.
And heâll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.
He listens to her breathe.
He doesn't know why he tortures himself like thatâwhy he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams sheâs long since outgrown. Maybe heâs still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe heâs waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.
Heâll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.
Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like thereâs a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap heâs too smart to fall for.
She was never supposed to see it.
An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. Sheâd plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.
She didnât say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.
âDaddy⊠you hurt bad people, right?â
He froze.
ââŠWhatâd you see, love?â
âSome men. You hurt them. But⊠you were saving someone, werenât you?â
There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.
Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing heâd ever done.
âYes,â he said. âI hurt bad people. Iâve done things Iâm not proud of. Things Iâd never want you to see. But Iâve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.â
She nodded slowly. And thenâGod, kids are strangeâshe just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.
âIâm not scared of you,â she said softly. âYouâre my hero.â
And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.
He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him tooâarms around his neck like an anchor, like sheâd never let go.
She gets more clever every year.
She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous placesâlike the freezer, or under her bedâjust to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims itâs to âkeep him home longer.â
He pretends to be annoyed.
âYouâre a little brat,â he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.
âI'm baby!â she giggles back, kicking her legs.
They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When sheâs nervous at school, she touches her wrist twiceâit means âI wish you were here.â When heâs home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen tableâit means âI waited.â
She tells him she wants to be like him.
A protector. A fighter.
He tells her she already is.
But inside, the thought terrifies him.
Youâre the one who packs his bag now. She wonât help anymore. Not since last time.
Sheâd cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised heâd stay longer. That âlongerâ shouldnât mean âonly six days.â She was angry in that way only children can beâgrief-stricken and pure.
âI hate the army,â she said, clutching the edge of his vest.
He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.
âYou donât have to understand, love. But I hope one day⊠youâll forgive me for missing things.â
She didnât answer. Just turned and ran to her room.
He left anyway. And it broke him.
He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.
Itâs still there.
And when he comes back, Itâs always late.
Youâll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. Sheâll fly out of bed before you can stop herâbarefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.
He drops everything to catch her.
She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesnât even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and sheâs whispering âI missed you I missed you I missed youâ like a spell.
âI missed you too, sweetheart.â
He holds her like sheâs the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.
Teenage girls are loud in their silence.
Simon learned that the hard way.
She doesnât slam doors or scream. She doesnât yell âYou donât understand!â or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.
She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesnât even look up from her phone.
Sheâs fifteen.
And sometimes, Simon thinks sheâs slipping through his fingers, and heâs got nothing left but shadows and memory.
It started small.
She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.
He knew it wasnât personal.
It was growing up.
But that didnât make it easier.
âGive her space,â you told him gently. âSheâs figuring herself out.â
He tried. He really did.
But he couldnât help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldnât sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.
Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.
It came up one night, out of nowhere.
She was setting the table. Heâd been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:
âDo you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?â
He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.
He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.
âNo,â he said after a long pause. âI wear it because I used to think I was already dead.â
She blinked.
Didnât say anything.
He almost regretted being honest.
âBut thenâŠâ His voice caught. âThen I had you.â
The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.
And then she whispered:
âYouâre not dead.â
He cleared his throat, chest aching. âNo. Not anymore.â
She set down a fork.
Walked over.
And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.
He didnât let go for a long time.
The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isnât leaving. Itâs letting her live.
Sheâs starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesnât know.
He doesnât sleep well on those nights.
You can see itâthe way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.
âSheâs not a target,â you remind him. âSheâs a kid.â
But in his world, innocence doesnât mean safety.
And light doesnât mean thereâs no danger.
When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:
One look over her face.
A glance at her hands.
Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.
A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesnât even notice.
But he does.
Only when heâs sure sheâs safe does he let himself exhale.
The first time she really breaksâitâs quiet.
She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: âI donât think anyone really likes me.â
Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.
But he puts it down immediately.
And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesnât cry. He doesnât pry. Eventually, she says, âI feel like Iâm too much for people. Too weird.â
He looks at her then. Really looks.
And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:
âYouâre not too much. The worldâs just too loud.â
She leans into him.
He lets her.
Sheâs taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.
âI donât know how to be normal.â
He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
âGood. Normalâs overrated.â
She laughs, watery and real.
Itâs the sound of his heart stitching back together.
Simon isnât great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.
But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.
In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.
In the way he gives her his old hoodie when sheâs sick and lets her keep it.
In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.
She doesnât say âI love youâ as often as she used to.
But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles âDadâ like itâs homeâŠ
He knows.
He knows.
Sheâs not a child anymore.
But sheâll always be his little girl.
And heâll always be the ghost at her backâquiet, watchful, loyal.
Not haunting her.
Protecting her.
Always.
He never taught her how to drive.
You did.
She insisted.
He didnât mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didnât trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.
So he let you take her.
Watched from the window.
She waved at him once from the driverâs seat, grinning like she owned the road.
And he waved back. Small, barely-there.
But it was enough.
It was always enough.
The house is quieter now.
Sheâs twenty-three.
Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.
She comes home when she can, which isnât often. You say thatâs normal. Thatâs what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesnât come.
He still sets her place at the table when you arenât looking.
You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You donât ask.
She doesnât call him "daddy" anymore.
Thatâs what time does.
It sands things down.
She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if sheâs feeling playful.
He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you donât remember the moment it captured.
There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesnât cling to him anymore. Doesnât bury her face in his neck. Doesnât fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.
Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.
Sheâs brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.
And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to beâcheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.
Then the moment fades.
And sheâs grown again.
He doesnât go on missions anymore.
Retired now. Officially.
He didnât tell her right away. Wasnât sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.
But when he finally said it over dinnerâsoftly, plainly: âIâm done. Hung it up.ââshe looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.
âGood,â she said. âYou were always more than that.â
He looked at her thenâreally lookedâand realized she hadnât seen him as a soldier in years.
Sheâd seen the man.
The father.
The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.
He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.
But sheâd been watching himâall this time.
Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.
One night he got sick.
It wasnât life-threatening. Just a flu.
But he hadnât been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.
She came home that weekend without asking.
Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, âYou look like shit.â
He coughed. âNice to see you too.â
But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.
She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.
He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.
And for a secondâjust a flickerâhe wished she were small again.
Not because he didnât love who sheâd become.
But because that time was so brief.
So unbearably sweet.
And it was gone.
It was raining.
She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.
It was his brotherâs grave. The one he used to visit alone.
âI wish Iâd met him,â she said quietly.
âHe wouldâve loved you,â Simon replied. âYouâve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.â
She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.
âDo you ever miss being young?â
He didnât answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.
âI miss you being young,â he finally said.
And she didnât speak again. Just held his arm tighter.
One day, it happens.
She calls himâvoice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didnât know who else to call.
And Simon?
He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.
He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didnât ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.
She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.
Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.
And he just held her.
Kept one hand on the back of her head.
The other over her heart.
âYouâre safe,â he murmured. âIâve got you.â
Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,
âI didnât want to call you. Thought I was too old.â
He shook his head.
âYouâll never be too old to be my girl.â
And one dayâŠ
One day, itâs just the two of them on the porch.
Youâre inside baking. The sunâs going down. Her eyes are softer now.
She says, âDo you ever think you couldâve had a normal life?â
He doesnât answer at first.
Just watches the wind move through the trees.
Then:
âThis is normal. For me.â
She leans her head on his shoulder.
He doesnât flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.
âYou were always enough, you know,â she says.
He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.
And then she adds, quieter, âYou saved me. Even when I didnât know I needed saving.â
He closes his eyes.
Because in that moment, it doesnât matter what heâs done.
Who heâs killed.
What haunts him.
Because this is what remains.
This girl. This woman. This life they made.
And that⊠is enough.
He never thought heâd grow old.
Never imagined it.
He used to think men like him didnât make it past 40 â not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it â like his bones expected to be abandoned.
But now?
Now his body aches in new ways.
His knees click when he gets up too fast.
The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.
But youâre still here.
Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.
And it guts him. Every single time.
That you stayed.
That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.
Your love has changed.
Itâs not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.
Itâs quieter. But deeper. Warmer.
Itâs how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.
Itâs how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet donât touch the cold floor in the morning.
Itâs how you never ask where heâs going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though youâve seen them a hundred times.
Thereâs a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.
A knowing.
A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.
Youâll brush past him in the kitchen, and heâll place a hand on the small of your back â not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself youâre real. Here.
Still his.
Sometimes he just watches you.
He wonât say it out loud. Heâs too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when youâre reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just rightâ
He stares at you like youâre something holy.
Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought heâd never understand.
Heâll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whateverâs in his hands â but heâs watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.
Because he knows.
He knows time takes things.
Heâs lost too many people to pretend otherwise.
So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.
You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.
âYouâre staring,â you tease.
He shrugs. âI always do.â
He still has the mask.
Itâs in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.
You told him he didnât need it anymore, and he agreed.
But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.
You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.
You didnât say anything. Just sat beside him.
He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than youâd ever heard.
âI wore this to keep the world out,â he said. âBut somehow, you still found your way in.â
And you leaned against him.
And he let you.
And neither of you moved for a long time.
He loves you differently now.
Not less. Not softer.
But heavier.
Thereâs a weight to it now. A depth.
He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay â what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets heâs safe even now.
And he sees what it cost you, too.
He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasnât home.
Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why âdaddyâ missed her school recital.
Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.
He never said thank you. Not enough.
So now he shows it.
In every slow dance in the kitchen.
In every cup of tea made before you ask.
In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.
He asks you one night.
âDo you regret it?â
Itâs late. The moonlightâs dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. Youâre half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.
You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.
âAll of it,â he says, quietly.
And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.
âIâd do it all over again,â you say.
And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.
You fall asleep like that â your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.
And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...
Simon smiles.
Because in the end, despite everything heâs done, everything heâs lostâ
You stayed.
And that made all the difference.
It starts with small things.
Keys. Names.
What day it is.
Where he left his book.
At first, you joke about it. Call it âold man brain,â and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.
But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.
Asks where your daughter is â even though she just called.
He forgets the kettle is on.
Leaves the tap running.
Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.
And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.
âShe used to chew on this,â he says, quiet, âdidnât she?â
You nod.
âSheâs twenty-seven now, Simon.â
He blinks at the toy.
âOh.â
You learn his patterns.
He doesnât like loud noises anymore.
Doesnât like too many people in the house.
Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.
But heâs still him.
He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what theyâre called â even if he doesnât.
âIs that one the⊠the purple one?â he asks.
You smile. âLavender.â
âRight. Right, I knew that.â
He didnât.
But he likes when you pretend he did.
Sometimes he has bad days.
Days where he wakes up and doesnât know where he is.
Days when he looks at you and his face folds â not in anger, but in heartbreak.
âIâm supposed to know you,â he says once, voice shaking. âArenât I?â
You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.
âYou do. You always have.â
He breathes in, trembling.
âIâm scared, love.â
âI know,â you whisper. âItâs okay. Iâm not going anywhere.â
And you donât.
You never do.
But there are still good days.
Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.
When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.
When he tells you a story from the army â one he swore heâd forgotten.
And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,
âStill the prettiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
âEven with the wrinkles?â you tease.
âEspecially with them,â he grins.
You cry in the kitchen after that one.
Quietly.
Not because youâre sad.
But because you still get to have this.
And then one morning, he doesnât know your name.
He wakes with a start. Looks at you.
And doesnât say anything.
Not confusion. Not fear. Just⊠blankness.
You speak gently. Smile.
Tell him your name like itâs the first time.
Tell him youâre safe. That he is too.
And he nods.
âAlright. If you say so.â
But later â later that same day â when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:
âThank you, sweetheart.â
You freeze.
âDo you know who I am?â
He blinks. Thinks.
âNo. But I know I love you.â
The days stretch longer now.
Heâs quieter, softer â not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesnât speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and heâs just floating now.
He forgets more often than he remembers.
But he still holds your hand.
Even when he doesnât know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man whoâs known only one comfort in his entire life.
And he has.
You.
He sleeps more now.
Sometimes all day.
You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them arenât â he wouldnât correct you now even if he knew.
But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.
Like part of him â the part too deep to lose â still knows you.
And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:
âYouâre still here?â
And you always answer, soft and warm:
âIâve always been here.â
It happens on a rainy morning.
Thereâs nothing dramatic about it.
No gasp. No panic. No final words.
Just a stillness.
You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed â like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.
He doesnât look afraid.
He looks young.
Somehow.
Like the weight finally left him.
And for a long, long time, you donât move.
You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:
âYou made it, Simon. Youâre safe now.â
You bury him beside the lavender.
The spot he always loved â where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.
Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.
Thereâs no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.
Just:
Simon Riley
Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.
And you keep living.
Not out of duty.
Not out of guilt.
But because he would want you to.
You still drink your tea the way he made it.
Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.
Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.
Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes â and you swear you feel it:
His hand on your shoulder.
The breath of him.
The warmth.
You speak into the dark like heâs still beside you.
âIâll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.â
Because real love never ends.
And the life you built together â the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years â it doesnât vanish when he goes.
It lives in you.
In your daughter.
In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.
Simon made it home.
And home was always you.
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Simon was used to your dramatics. He expected tears, or at least a dramatic tackle hug. Thatâs usually how it went after deployments â youâd practically launch yourself at him the second he stepped through the apartment door, cling to him like heâd vanish again if you let go for even a second. Heâd gotten used to it. Quietly liked it more than heâd ever admit.
So when he unlocked the apartment door after three months away and heardâ
âOH MY GOD, NO, YOU IDIOT, DONâT PUT HIM ON THE FLOORââ
He stopped dead.
The flat smelled faintly of vanilla candles and instant ramen. The TV flickered brightly in the dark living room. And there you were. Curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, blue light glasses sliding down your nose, completely locked in on your laptop screen. You hadnât even noticed him.
Simon blinked slowly.
ââŠLove?â
You gasped so violently he thought youâd finally seen him. Instead, you slapped your keyboard.
âNO, NO, NOâ FEED HIM. FEED THE BABY YOU IDIOT!â
Simon stared. Then your head finally whipped around, your face lit up instantly.
âSIMON!â
There it was.
He barely had time to drop his duffel bag before you scrambled over the couch and threw yourself at him. He caught you automatically, arms wrapping around your waist as you buried your face into his chest.
âThereâs my girl..â he rumbled quietly.
âI missed you.â you mumbled into his chest.
âMissed you too.â
You pulled back enough to look at him properly, hands immediately grabbing his face like you needed to make sure he was real.
Thenâ
âOkay wait, hold on, I need to pause my game.â
Simon actually laughed.
A real laugh.
âYou serious?â
âYes! The babyâs gonna starve!â
âTheââ
You slipped from his arms and darted back toward the couch. Simon followed slowly, exhausted and amused all at once, shrugging off his jacket while watching you click furiously at the screen.
And then he saw it.
A Sim version of you.
And beside youâ
A Sim version of him.
Blonde, military haircut.
Broad shoulders.
Black clothes.
Even..his mask.
Simon stared at the screen in disbelief.
ââŠIs that me?â
You looked entirely unapologetic.
âYeah.â
âYou made me in this game?â
âWell obviously.â
He watched little Sim Simon stand in a kitchen while Sim You yelled at him in gibberish over a burning stove.
ââŠWhy am I setting the kitchen on fire?â
âBecause your cooking skill is literally level one.â
âI can cook.â
âIn real life, yes. Sim Simon? Absolutely not.â
He huffed quietly through his nose. Then his eyes narrowed at the screen. There was a little pink relationship bar nearly maxed out.
A house.
Photos.
A tiny virtual child waddling through the kitchen.
Simon leaned closer.
ââŠWeâve got a kid?â
âOh, yeah. Two actually.â
âTwo?â
âThe first one was an accident.â
Simon barked out another laugh, shaking his head.
âYouâve lost your mind while Iâve been gone.â
âProbably.â
You grinned at him before returning to your game. And Simon just⊠watched for a second. Watched you ramble excitedly about expansion packs and building furniture and how long it took to make his tattoos accurate.
Watched the way your eyes lit up.
God.
He missed this, missed you.
Then Sim You walked up to Sim Him on-screen and kissed him dramatically while romantic music chimed from the speakers.
Simon raised an eyebrow.
ââŠRight.â
You froze.
Very slowly, you turned your laptop slightly away from him.
âNo.â
âWhat?â
âDonât look at that.â
Now he was interested.
Simon leaned over the back of the couch, large hand braced beside your head as he peered down at the screen despite your protests.
âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs embarrassing!â
âMm.â
His eyes tracked the screen carefully.
Thenâ
His gaze landed on the bed.
Rose petals.
Flirty moodlets.
And the very obvious âWooHooâ interaction option.
Simon went silent.
You went rigid.
ââŠDonât.â
He looked at you slowly.
Then back at the screen.
Then at you again.
A dangerous little glint appeared in his eyes.
âYou makinâ us shag in a video game, sweetheart?â
Your face immediately burst into flames.
âItâs not like that!â
âMmhm.â
âItâs gameplay!â
âYou do this often?â
âSIMON.â
He was absolutely enjoying this now.
You tried hiding your face behind your hands while he leaned down closer, voice dropping low and teasing near your ear.
âSo.â
A pause.
âAm I any good?â
You made the single most offended noise heâd ever heard.
âOh my GOD.â
Simon laughed again â properly this time â watching you dissolve into mortified squeaking beside him.
Then he reached over, shut the laptop gently, and lifted you off the couch.
âCâmon.â he murmured against your hair. âThink youâll prefer the real thing over the game anyway.â
Your face somehow got even hotter.
And Simon decided very quickly that maybe this new sims addiction wasnât so bad after all.
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Summary: You're trying to help Johnny behind Simon's back.
Pairing: boyfriend!Ghost x f!reader, bff!Soap x f!reader
Warnings/tags: fluff, humor, minors DNI, fem!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, cussing
"Smoother, I can't write it down," you disapproved, adjusting the magazine on your thigh. Simon chuckled in response.
"Occurring or situated within a cell, 13 letters," you bit the tip of your pen.
Ghost lowered himself to the floor and did a push-up with a quiet puff. "Intracellular."
Your barracks room was quiet and cozy. You sat on his bare back, wearing only his worn T-shirt, trying to stay steady while Simon finished his second hundred of push-ups.
"Nope, too short."
"Two L's."
"Oh, fine then."
You scratched the back of his head gratefully, burying your fingers in his hair, still dump after showering. Ghost exhaled shakily, doing one last push-up, and you slid off his back.
"You did good," you hummed with a sly grin, kissing his mouth. Your boyfriend was breathing heavily after the workout, but greedily leaned into the sweet reward.
"aaaaaaAAAAAAAA"
The distant screaming in the hallway grew louder with every second, inexorably approaching your room.
"BONNIE OPEN THE DOOR," Soap pounded on your door as if his life depended on it.
"Bloody hell," Simon moaned into your lips and stood up to open the door himself. The hinges creaked, you could see Johnny taking a deep breath when he suddenly saw Simon standing in front of him, and almost choked on air.
"What are you bloody yelling for?" He grumbled, unimpressed, crossing his arms.
"I uh- huh- Oi, what are ye doing in ma Bonnie's room??"
"That's my woman's room." Simon snapped. "What have you done?"
"What have ah done?..."
"Don't make that face. It means trouble."
"Well, first of all, nae, it doesn't. And also, ah wasn't even talking tae ye!" Soap called your name over Simon's shoulder, now completely ignoring him.
"Hey, what's- woah!" You yelped as Johnny pulled you by the hand into the hallway.
"McTavish!"
"Girls need tae have a talk!"
"What the hell, J-"
"He'll destroy me."
You froze in the middle of the hallway, staring at your friend with wide eyes. At your silent question, he pulled you further down the maze of corridors, shoving you into the laundry room, and slammed the door.
Dirty T-shirts, pillowcases, and some rags flew in all directions as Soap began rummaging through large boxes filled with piles of laundry.
"I came to wash ma workout clothes, threw 'em in the washing machine, everything was as directed," someone's sweaty shorts nearly flew at you. "And then I see Ghost's spare balaclava. I thoucht, why canae i help a friend? It's cotton, too, what could go wrong!"
Diving almost to the very bottom of the underwear drawer, he pulled out a small piece of black fabric, barely bigger than a fist, much less a head.
"Holy shit!"
"I know, I know! That's exactly it!" Now, seeing your reaction, his voice was filled with genuine panic. "What should I do??"
"Johnny, what is this..." you gasped in shock.
"Simon's mask, what else?! Ye have to help me, Bonnie! Ye know, he'll rip ma skin off alive, starting with ma mohawk!" Johnny clutched his head with his hands, covering the precious strip of hair.
"What am I going to do? Rewind time?!" You threw up your hands, taking the shrunken fabric from his grasp. "Damn, what temperature did you set it to?"
Johnny hesitated, muttering, "Uh... normal."
You sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of your nose. "K, uh... I need my hair conditioner".
"Want yer hair to look good on ma funerals?" He groaned, covering his face with his hands.
"You need to soak the fabric in water and conditioner so it can stretch back out." Johnny's eyes lit up with hope at these words. "I'm going to go get it, you sit here and get a bowl of warm water."
"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!"
You hurried back to your room, passing Simon lying on your bed. He watched, arms crossed, as you emerged from the bathroom with a small bottle.
"What did he get you into, sweetheart?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing, I'll be right back."
Simon leaned back against the headboard, grinning with pure sarcasm. "Mm, sure."
"Agh, shut up!" You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile.
"You'll have to find a use for my mouth if you want it busy," he said with such a flat expression, staring into your eyes that your face flushed bright red.
"You're insufferable."
"Your suffering is voluntary."
Running back to the laundry room, you wanted nothing more than to give your best friend a hard time for ruining the evening, but you still spent the next half hour soaking and stretching the rough fabric of Ghost's balaclava.
"Okay," you exhaled tiredly, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. "It looks kinda big now."
"I guess... how dae we know if it's enough?" Johnny looked funny, disheveled, with his sleeves rolled up.
"Try putting it on something round. And dry it yourself. I'm already up to my ears in your shit." You grabbed the bottle of conditioner and straightened your clothes, getting ready to leave. "Oh, and don't throw it in the dryer, you need to let the mask dry in a stretched state."
He nodded, smiling with relief.
It was already late evening as you dragged your tired legs to bed. Instead of a pleasant evening with your boyfriend, you were mastering hand washing. You owe me big time, Johnny - you thought, waiting to be embraced by strong arms and the warmth of a blanket...
The room was empty.
"Si?..." Right at that moment, a distant but resonant "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU??" reached your ears.
Damn.
"Could you explain why I'm catching McTavish in the laundry room, with MY wet balaclava on HIS empty head and a damn HAIRDRYER at his temple?"
"I was drying it!!" Johnny screeched, hiding behind you. You froze, confused, in the middle of the hallway, caught between two fires.
"Why the hell did you even touch it?!"
"Why did you put that on your head?" You hissed over your shoulder at Johnny.
"Ye said put it on something round!"
You opened your mouth to answer, but Soap was already running down the hall with a yell, waving the still-wet balaclava.
I donât even bother turning the lights on when I get in. Two in the bloody morning, whole house dead quiet, boots soft on the floor out of habit more than courtesy. I shut the door behind me with a careful click, roll my shoulders like I can shrug off the last few weeks, and head straight for the kitchen because Iâm parched enough to drink from the tap like a stray. It smells like homeâher shampoo, faint vanilla, something warm and lived-inâand it hits harder than anything I dealt with overseas. Makes my chest feel tight in a way I donât like thinking about too long. I drop my bag by the door, drag a hand over my face, already half-reaching for a glass when thereâs this sharp shift in the air, something wrong, something off, and I barely get a second to register it beforeâ
WHACK.
ââfuck!â
Itâs loud as hell, metal on bone, stars bursting behind my eyes as something heavy clips the side of my face and sends me stumbling back into the counter. My ears ring, vision swimming, and every instinct screams to retaliate, to neutralize, to end the threat, but I choke it down fast because I know this house, I know her, and thereâs only one person in here whoâd swing like that. My hands go up immediately, palms out, voice rough and urgent, âItâs meâ itâs me, itâs me, y/n, donât swingââ
Thereâs a split second where I can hear her breathing, sharp and panicked, the faint scrape of bare feet on tile, and then the light flicks on. Itâs blinding after the dark, makes me squint, one eye already starting to swell, and there she isâhair a mess, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, and a bloody bat raised over her head like sheâs about to cave my skull in properly this time. She looks wild, proper terrified, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassyâand then it clicks. Recognition hits her all at once.
âOh my GodâSimon?!â
âChrist, woman.â
Her voice breaks on my name. The bat clatters to the floor like itâs burned her, and her hands fly to her mouth. âOh my God, oh my God, Iâ I didnâtâ I thoughtâ you didnât text, you didnât call, I heard something and I justââ
âI know, I knowâeasy, dove, easyââ
âYour faceâoh my God, I hit youâ I actually hit youââ sheâs moving before I can stop her, hands hovering like she doesnât know where sheâs allowed to touch, eyes darting over the blood already trickling down from my brow. âYouâre bleeding, youâre bleeding, why are you bleeding so much? Sit down, sitâno, donât sit, waitâno, sitâ I needâwhere are the tissuesââ
âYouâve only gone and brained me, sweetheart, thatâs why,â I mutter, half-dazed, leaning back against the counter while she spins in a frantic little circle like sheâs short-circuiting. It would be funny if my head wasnât ringing like a church bell.
âI didnât know it was you!â she blurts, already grabbing a roll of paper towels and yanking half of it off in one go. âYouâre supposed to tell me when youâre coming home at two in the morning like some kind ofâintruder!â
âI did text,â I say, wincing when she presses the wad of paper to my face with shaking hands. âHours ago.â
âI was asleep!â she shoots back, voice wobbling. âI donât check my phone when Iâm asleep, Simon!â
âRight, yeah, thatâs on me then.â
She makes this distressed little noise, like she doesnât know whether to laugh or cry, and I can see the tears building now, clinging to her lashes as she fusses over me, dabbing at the blood, trying to be gentle but still pressing hard enough that I grunt. âDoes it hurt? Of course it hurts, thatâs a stupid questionâcan you see properly? Did I break something? I didnât break something, did I?â
âYou didnât break anything,â I cut in, catching her waist before she can start spiraling further, pulling her a little to get her attention. âIâve had worse.â
âThat doesnât make it any better!â She protests.
She glares at me, even with tears spilling over now. Sheâs got an attitude even while crying. âDonât you dare downplay this, I literally attacked you.â
âDefended your home,â I correct, because thereâs a difference and she needs to hear it. âHeard a noise, grabbed a weapon, went for it.â
âI nearly knocked you unconscious!â
âAye,â I huff out a breath that turns into a rough laugh despite myself. âHell of a swing at that.â
That stops her for a second. She blinks at me, confused, like she wasnât expecting that reaction at all. âYouâreâ youâre laughing?â
âLil bit, yeah.â My hand comes up to my temple, and I wince again because, Christ, she really did get me good. âJesus fuck, woman, you could take out a grown man with that arm.â
Her face crumples at that, completely misreading it. âIâm so sorryââ
âNo, noââ I tug her closer by the waist, ignoring the way my head protests the movement. âI mean it. You did exactly what youâre supposed to do.â
âI hit my husband in the face with a metal bat, Simon, I donât think thatâs in any safety manualââ
âYou didnât know it was me,â I say again, softer this time, steadying her when she starts to shake. âThatâs the point. You thought someone broke in. And instead of freezing, you acted. Iâll take a bruised face over you hesitating any day.â
She sniffles, looking down like she doesnât quite believe me, fingers still curled in my shirt. âYouâre bleeding all over the kitchen.â
âAdds character.â
âThatâs not funny.â
âItâs a little funny.â
She lets out this shaky, half-laugh, half-sob, and finallyâfinallyâshe leans into me instead of hovering like sheâs afraid of making it worse. I donât wait. My arm wraps around her, pulling her in properly, tucking her against my chest like Iâve been needing to do since I stepped through the door. She buries her face into me immediately, gripping tight, and I can feel how fast her heartâs going.
âYou scared me,â she mumbles into my shirt. âI thoughtâ I donât know what I thoughtââ
âI know.â My chin rests on top of her head, eyes closing for a second because thisâthis right hereâis the only thing thatâs real after a deployment. âI know Iâm sorry. But youâre alright. Thatâs what matters.â
âYOU are not alright,â she argues weakly.
âI will be.â I huff out another quiet laugh, hand rubbing up and down her back. âMight have a cracking headache in the morning, but Iâll live.â
âAt least we know you can take care of yourself proper when Iâm not here.â I meet her gaze, make sure she hears it. âThaâ matters more than ma face.â
She goes quiet at that, something soft and aching passing over her expression, and then she exhales, tension leaving her shoulders bit by bit. âYouâre insane.â
âProbably.â
âAnd you still need to sit down so I can clean that properly.â
âYes, maâam.â
She nudges me toward a chair, still fussing, still muttering apologies under her breath even as she grabs proper supplies this time. I let her. Let her dab at the cut, let her scold me for not announcing myself louder, for not calling again, for scaring her half to death. And the whole time, I canât stop the small, crooked smile pulling at my mouth.
Because I came home in the middle of the night, got clocked in the face with a bat, and somehowâsomehowâthis is still the safest Iâve felt in weeks.
simon riley kissing you on your forehead, on your nose, on your cheekbones. he does it every night, without fail, kisses you on the little framed photo he carries around on base when he can't get home, kisses your warm skin when you are home.
simon riley kisses you like a little ritual every time you go to sleep.
simon riley kissing you as you lie in your casket, your parents insisted on an open casket funeral, he can finally see you again one last time, kissing your forehead, your nose, your cheekbones. one last time.
Rain taps softly against the windows while the television mutters quietly in the background.
Neither Simon nor his girlfriend is really watching it.
She is stretched across the sofa with her legs over Simonâs lap, half-asleep after a long day, while Simon absently runs a rough thumb along their ankle.
Domestic.
Safe.
The kind of peace he once thought belonged to other people.
And the ring box sits hidden behind some old boxes in the kitchen cabinet, the one she canât reach.
He knows exactly where it is at all times. Sometimes, when sheâs asleep, he takes it out just to look at it.
Not because he changes his mind. Because he doesnât.
Thatâs the problem.
She shifts slightly, eyes still closed.
âYouâre brooding again.â
âAm not.â
âHmm.â
He knows heâs caught and his grip on her ankles becomes just slightly tighter. She smiles without opening her eyes, comfortable enough to fall asleep for hours without even twitching a muscle.
That trust hits Simon harder than bullets every time.
He looks down at her carefully. At the familiar softness of her face. The way her chest goes up and down with every tranquil breath she takes when sheâs with him. Â Goosebumps rise along her skin because sheâs too stubborn to put on something warmer.
Itâs been two years together now. Him learning exactly how she takes her tea: with milk and two sugars, sometimes one if sheâs having sweets with it. Memorising the sound of her footsteps and being able to say what mood sheâs in. Years of late-night phone calls from places with bad signal areas. Her never knowing where he is, just hoping each call isnât the last time she hears his voice. Her pretending not to notice the bruises when he comes home because she doesnât want him to remember what he survived. Simon standing outside the building before missions just to look at the lights in the windows. He tells her not to watch him leave because what if someone sees her and hurts her while heâs gone? And, well, he canât bear the sadness on her face --- the one that she tries to hide but fails miserably every time.
He loves her so much.
And thatâs exactly why he canât do it.
She finally opens one eye. âWhatâs going on in that head?â
âNothing.â
âLiar.â
Simonâs jaw tightens faintly. She notices that too. She always notices.
She sits up a little, studying him now.
âYou disappear like this quite often.â
âIâm here.â
âPhysically.â
That lands harder than intended. Simon looks away toward the rain-streaked windows.
He knows what she wants.
Not pressure.
Never pressure.
But sometimes he catches her eyes lingering on jewelry shop windows.
Sometimes she pauses when her friends announce engagements.
Sometimes Simon sees the flicker of hurt she tries to hide when people ask her -or worse, tease her -about getting married.
And Christ, he wants it, too.
More than heâs ever wanted anything.
A name on paperwork.
A ring on her delicate finger.
Something official and undeniable.
Mine.
But the thought also keeps him awake at night. Because Simon Riley knows what happens to things attached to him.
His mother.
Tommy.
His father.
Soldiers he tried not to care about.
Anyone close enough.
Because Ghost survives and Simon Riley leaves bodies behind.
She touches his arm gently. âTalk to me.â He goes still under the contact for a moment. Then, âYou ever think about leaving?â
She blinks. âWhat?â
âMe.â
The answer comes instantly. âNo.â
âYou should.â
Thereâs no self-pity in it.
No dramatic sadness.
Just blunt certainty.
She sits up fully now, concern etched on her face.
âSimonââ
âI mean it.â
His voice stays low and even, which somehow makes it worse.
âWhy?â She asks, though she knows that look. That haunted look heâs giving without realizing that keeps his brain busy with lies he wants to believe.
âThis life is all I can give to you. Itâs all I can offer.â
âI wanted it.â
âYou donât understand-â
âI understand,â She cuts in, not harshly. âI understand you think if you love something quietly enough, maybe the universe wonât notice.â
That silences him completely.
Because that is exactly it.
The hidden apartment.
No photos together online.
Different routines.
Separate names on documents.
No public traces.
Simon has spent years loving her like a classified secret. As if loving her quietly could keep her alive.
As if secrecy could bargain with fate.
She reaches for his hand slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesnât.
âYou know what I think?â she murmurs. Simon says nothing. âI think you decided a long time ago that surviving means never letting yourself have anything fully.â
His throat tightens unexpectedly.
Her thumb brushes over his knuckles.
âAnd I think that scares you more than death does.â
There it is. Thatâs the truth heâs been avoiding. Death scared him less than having something gentle enough to lose.
Simon finally finds his voice again. âYou deserve better than looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.â
Her eyes soften painfully. âI already chose you.â
God. That almost breaks him.
His fingers tighten around hers hard enough to hurt before he immediately loosens them again. He bows his head, pressing their joined hands to his mouth for one brief second, as if heâs trying to hold himself together.
When he speaks again, the words come quietly. âThereâs a ring.â
She goes completely still. Simon lets out a tired breath.
âHad it eight months.â Her eyes widen as she listens. âI justâŠâ He stares down at their hands. âCouldnât do it.â
âWhy?â
âBecause men like me donât have good endings to promise.â
He saw the way his girlfriendâs eyes widened with fear. The way her face went pale and her chin trembled as tears slipped down her cheeks. He saw it all happen.
It was supposed to be a peaceful day. He couldnât be home often and when he was, he wanted to spend the time in the best way possible. He would hug her so tight the first moment he stepped in their apartment. He would stay quiet and breathe her in â soap, warmth, something soft and alive after weeks of dirt, blood, and smoke. He would let her cry because this woman â this sweet soul â longed for him more than she could bear. For the warmth beside her in bed. For the comfort after a long day. For the shared laughter over some stupid video she found online. Then he would listen to her, talk to her, eat the food she made that smelled like home. He would smile at her excited face when she relaxed enough to ramble about everything heâd missed. He would touch her warm, soft skin and satisfy her until he felt the exhaustion in his bones.
Until he had to leave her again.
But this time, something happened the next day. A cry shook the whole building, coming from a neighbour. Fifth floor, a nice family with three kids. The mother was crying, children were terrified. In front of their door, soldiers watched them with sad faces, some of them wiped their tears away. Medics helped the woman calm down, consoled the little children to make the trauma less frightening. Neighbours talked, whispered and shared glances that held similar emotions.
âWeâre sorry,â the soldiers had said. âYour husband was a brave man. He died serving his country.â
But âbraveâ didnât make him come home. And Simon watched his girlfriend realize that this was what the future held for her as well. Neither of them had ever let the reality reach this far before.
He immediately pulled her inside, brushing her tears away with his thumbs before guiding her to the couch. He knelt in front of her, waiting for her eyes to find him.
She looked at him without really seeing him. He knew what she saw instead: soldiers at their door, rigid shoulders, rehearsed condolences.
âSimon Riley served bravely.â
âSimon Riley died protecting his country.â
Simon Riley never came home.
âHey.â He broke the silence, trying to bring her back to him. She blinked a few times, now she was studying his face. Unable to say anything, to put her fears into words. But he understood, all of them. He felt guilty. He felt helpless. He couldnât find any words to soothe her worries.
Simon finally faced the harsh reality of the man he was. Ghost. The beast in the field. The merciless soldier behind the skull mask that made even the most experienced men terrified.
Now he was faced with another terrified person. This person didn't look at him like he was a monster who killed like a robot. She had such a soft heart that she could create a place in it just for the scarred man he was. A voice gentle enough to pull him out of his worst nights, eyes that would shine whenever they looked at his haunted ones. She would miss him so much that her delicate body would tremble from holding back when he came home and wrapped his arms around her. She was his home and this time, the person in front of him wasn't terrified of him.
She was terrified of the future that might not include him.
For the first time, Simon Riley considered retirement.
Not because of the nightmares.
Not because of the blood on his hands.
For the first time, Simon Riley wanted a future that didnât end in a folded flag.
-----------------------
i used to find it so cringe when people mentioned English wasnât their first language and apologised for their mistakes but now i understand the anxiety lol. itâs been a long time since iâve written anything so feel free to give feedbacks <3 hope u enjoyed it.
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