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And now some American broad is afflicting him like a fever, which was not in his bingo cards.

He didn’t even know what to do about it. He considered cutting it off— that he would stop smoking at the pergola and just let life move on. He could simply end everything before he got carried away. But for some reason, that idea pained him more than anything, so he quickly dismissed it. Simon was plagued with images of you waiting up for him, your eyes darkening with disappointment as each night passed without him. And Simon wasn’t stupid; he knew this wasn’t one-sided. He noticed the way your eyes sparked when they met his, the way you smirked and teased him. So he was worried about how you would feel if he just went ghost.

Which is the thing he does best.

However, when it came to you, he didn’t want isolation or indifference; he just wanted your presence. He wished he could understand it; understand why you wanted him around as much as he wanted you. In the end, he just gets pulled into an endless loop of you and nonsense.

Why the fuck do you make him feel… normal?

Is that the word for it?

He thought he was incapable of such a thing.

Heavy words are so lightly thrown. 

Whatever it was, it wasn’t something that he wanted to shake. He wanted it to endure, despite the edge it put him on. This was all new territory for him, having deemed himself far past his prime for anything other than work acquaintances. Hell, he didn’t even have your number, but listening to you felt like listening to Johnny. Though you’re much prettier and far less annoying.

Speaking of…

Maybe Johnny could distract him from this internal madness, and he had been itching to go out.

Two birds with one stone, yeah?

Simon unlocked his phone and pulled up Johnny’s contact, his thumb hovering above the call button. Doubt prickled in his mind, but he chased it away, ignoring the pull in his gut telling him to stick to his routine.

No, he needs to clear his mind.

His thumb hit the button.

So, what difference does it make? 

“‘Bout time ya took me out, L.T.” Johnny slapped Simon on the back with a rough hand, earning a firm grunt from the taller man.

Both men sat side by side at the bar of a semi-crowded pub in downtown Manchester. It was some place Johnny picked out, claimed it was casual and less busy than most on a weekend. Tugging his mask up, Simon brought the draught to his lips as he felt Johnny’s eyes linger on him.

“What?” Simon grumbled between gulps.

“You ‘right?” Johnny asked just as gruffly as he reached for his own beer.

“Peachy,” Simon muttered as his eyes flittered across the pub out of habit. He noticed Johnny roll his eyes with a huff as he took a sip.

“Yer so full of shite, man, never seen ya so damn airheaded in me life. What’s got ya spacin’?” Johnny pressed, fixing Simon with his ‘serious’ gaze. Simon had to stop his eyes from rolling, instead opting for a heavy sigh.

“Just the same ole shit, Johnny.” Simon tried to ease his friend’s concern, though he knew it didn’t come out too convincing.

Johnny let it drop, but he could tell it hovered around the corners of his mind. He launched into a story about a training op gone sideways— something to do with a recruit throwing up on another. Simon tried to pay attention, he really did, but his mind wandered to aimless thoughts of you.

It wasn’t until the third beer that Johnny narrowed his eyes at him, as if squinting to see through Simon’s skull. He elbowed him hard enough to spill Simon’s drink, causing Simon to frown. “Yer a right miserable bastard these days, mate. When’s the last time ya had a proper night out?”

Simon wanted to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he stared at the foam on his brew and grunted. “Goin’ out now, aren’t I?”

Johnny scoffed, the sound bubbling up with laughter. “This dinnae count, L.T.. Yer allergic to fun. S’like ya only come out of yer cave when Price orders it.”

He felt his lips twitch, the beginnings of a smirk fighting through, despite himself. “Caves are nice. Quiet. No one to bother ya.”

Johnny leaned in, dropping his voice. “Dinnae tell me the Ghost’s gone soft.”

Simon shot him a look, the kind that might make a lesser man apologize, but Johnny just grinned wider. “Something’s off with ya, Simon. You’ve been different. Who is she?”

Simon coughed into his beer, damning his friend for seeing right through him. “Not everythin’s about a girl, Johnny.”

He snorted and leaned closer with a smirk. “It’s always ‘bout a fuckin’ girl.” He watched Simon with an intensity he usually reserved for the field, and he could feel his ears burning under Johnny’s stare. “Yer not goin’ to tell me, are ya?”

Simon weighed his options, each one heavier than the last. Tell Johnny, and he’d never live it down. Don’t, and he’d just keep digging until he hit bone. Simon settled for a middle ground. “It’s nothin’ serious.”

Johnny’s eyebrows shot up as his smirk widened. “So there is a lass.”

The idea was so absurd that Simon nearly choked. “No.”

Johnny tapped his glass to his anyway, giving him a messy salute. “Then what’s got ya so twisted up?”

Simon tried to think of a lie, but nothing convincing would come to mind. The alcohol had loosened his grip on self-preservation, and the words fell out before he could snatch them back. “Met a new girl at the flats. Yank. Smokes like a chimney, can’t shut up to save her life.”

Johnny’s face lit up, scandalized and thrilled in equal measure. “Get fucked. Yer jokin’.”

Simon shook his head, all the while feeling like he was in confession. “She’s… different.”

Johnny took a dramatic gulp from his pint with a raised brow. “Different how? Like, a neighbor, or…”

“Neighbor. Catches me out at the pergola most nights.” Simon paused, trying to weigh each word. “Talks about plants and history and all sorts of random shite… I don’t know.” He trailed off, not wanting to offer any more. The words made it too real, too raw, in his mind.

Johnny didn’t let it go. “Since when do you talk ta’ anyone outside the force?”

Simon shrugged, self-conscious of his own transparency. “Don’t know.”

Johnny looked at Simon for a long moment before he grinned. “That’s cute as fuck, L.T.” Johnny’s eyes gleamed, delighted with the revelation. “Yer smitten, ya are.”

Simon groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “‘M not smitten. I’m just— fuckin’—“

“Yeah, yeah, yer just what? Jus’ chattin’ up yer sweet lil’ neighbor?” Johnny cackled, and Simon shot him a deadly glare. He only tipped his beer at Simon, completely unfazed. “So, when do I get ta’ meet her?”

“Never,” Simon immediately deadpanned, his tone final. “The last thing I need is you makin’ it weird, or her gettin’ even more curious about my fuckin’ life.”

Johnny snorted but didn’t drop it. “All right, all right. But still, ’m shocked she dinnae turn around ‘n run when she saw yer mask. Or is she into that freaky shite?“ He winked with that question, earning another eye roll from Simon.

Simon tipped his drink but found it empty. “Dunno what you’re on about.”

Johnny flagged the bartender for two more, half-leaning over the bar as he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You ever ask her out, L.T.? Take her somewhere nice? Or is it all smoke breaks ‘n awkward eye-fucking like ‘m imaginin’?”

Simon narrowed his eyes, heat prickling at his neck. “Can we not do this here?”

Johnny only grinned, pleased, maybe a little proud (of himself). “C’mon, Simon. Ya got that look, like yer one good laugh away from fallin’ in love. Dinnae tell me you’ve gone soft for a bloody American.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, coming to terms with his predicament as his friend practically roasted him. Because Johnny’s right, he’s gone fuckin’ soft for an American girl. And for some reason, he’s helpless to it.

As if it were a weakness.

When the drinks arrived, Johnny stayed on his case. “What’s her name, then?” He nudged the glass toward Simon, overfilled beer spilling over the lip.

“Lana,” Simon said gruffly, the word feeling heavier than the glass.

Johnny gave a low, impressed whistle. “Lana. That’s a porno name, mate. Or a Bond girl. Fuckin’ Christ.” He sipped, then leaned in with a toothy grin. “What’s she look like?”

Simon didn’t want to say it out loud, but the shape of your mouth, the way you laughed even when you were tired, haunted his thoughts. “She’s… not my type,” he lied, but Johnny barked a laugh at that.

“Yer fuckin’ hopeless, ya know that?” Johnny clapped him on the shoulder a little too hard, causing him to grunt. “I say go for it. Never seen ya so chipper.”

Simon almost laughed ironically. Instead, he felt his back muscles tighten, old reflexes stirring as he scanned the crowd, the habit stronger with every pint. The pub’s noise blurred, the lights smearing into a headache. He looked past Johnny, searching for exits, then for reasons, then for shadows.

And that’s when his heart stopped: at the front of the pub, a familiar sight hit him like a beacon. Simon didn’t have to see your face to know it was you— in a blue denim jacket, hair loose, walking in with a taller woman he didn’t recognize. Your laughter rang out, a sudden, impossible threat to weeks of careful partition.

Johnny started talking, but it all went to white noise. Simon tracked your progress across the pub, the way you tossed your chin as you scanned for a table, the way your companion nudged you to the bar.

Simon had a split second to think.

If you saw him here with Johnny, you’d recognize him first. And if you recognized him, the whole fucking house of cards would collapse. Because you’re too smart, if you saw him with Johnny and came over, it would just be a matter of time until you put the pieces together.

So Simon acted before he could doubt himself.

The devil will find work for idle hands to do. 

Without a word, Simon dropped his empty mug and clamped a bruising grip on Johnny’s forearm. The movement startled them both: Johnny nearly toppled off the stool, and the glass behind the bar rattled as Simon yanked him to his feet. Johnny let out a strangled “Oi!” but Simon was already threading between bodies, carving a path to the back exit. In his wake, he saw a waitress swerve to avoid a collision, the tray of drinks splashing dangerously. Simon didn’t stop, didn’t breathe, didn’t explain. The only thing on his mind was you, maybe ten yards away and closing.

He slammed out the service door into the alley, the metal thudding behind them and leaving his ears ringing. The air was cool and musky, reeking of old cigarettes and fryer oil. Johnny wrenched his arm free, planting his feet in the puddle-streaked alley and glowering at Simon. “What the fuck, Simon?” He spat, the words sharp with a rare panic. “Did ya see a fuckin’ ghost in there?”

Simon doubled over, staring at the cracked asphalt as he tried to collect himself. He’d only drunk three pints, but his palms were ice, and his shirt clung damp to his back. His heart was still racing, his hands still shaking as he tried to focus on the present.

Johnny reached for Simon’s shoulder, the gesture uncharacteristically gentle. “L.T., talk ta’ me.” His eyes darted back to the door as well, then around the alley, voice dropping to a whisper as if he expected bullets.

Simon rolled his neck and exhaled harshly. “Just needed some fuckin’ air,” he managed, but his voice was off— too shaky, too thin. “Wasn’t a threat, Johnny, just a panic attack.” His eyes skittered to the door, expecting you to appear, expecting the world to end.

Johnny didn’t buy it. He prodded Simon’s chest and neck before being pushed away. “That was no panic attack. You saw somethin’. Tell me.” He waited, lips pressed tight with insistent blue eyes.

Simon ground his teeth as he grimaced. “‘Said I’m fine.” He straightened, shrugged Johnny off, and readjusted his mask. The streetlamp overhead buzzed with a dying bulb, making Johnny’s face flicker in the dark. “Just got crowded in there. Needed to get out.” He hated the lie, but the truth would have stirred up far more trouble.

And wasn’t sure he had accepted it himself yet.

Johnny eyed him with a suspicious edge. “Yer fuckin’ weird, L.T.,” he said, but the words were soft, almost comforting to Simon. “But next time, warn a bloke before ya try to break ‘is arm.”

Simon let out a low noise between a laugh and a groan. The chilly air seeped in, and for a while, they just stood there, listening to the muffled pub noise through the bricks in a comfortable silence as Simon smoked a cigarette.

Eventually, Johnny clapped him on the back of the shoulder, a sign that he was going to head out. Johnny cocked his head, eyes flicking to Simon’s face. “You good to get home, then? Or d’ya need me to walk ya home like a fuckin’ ol’ lady?”

Simon scoffed, his pulse finally slowing, though the adrenaline had left his nerves tingling. “Don’t be daft. I’m fine.”

Johnny didn’t move, his gaze slightly intensifying. “Y’ever want to talk, mate… I mean it. I know you, and I know tha’ look. There’s more goin’ on than yer lettin’ out.”

The words were too close for comfort, so Simon shrugged them off and changed the subject. “Should get some rest. You need a lift?”

Johnny hesitated, clearly wanting to push further, but finally relented. “Nah, ’m good. Text me when ya’ get home, yeah?”

Simon grunted an affirmative and turned away, the city’s neon haze crowding back in as he strode down the slick sidewalk. He didn’t look back, but he could feel Johnny’s eyes on him for blocks.

His flat was a twenty-minute walk, and by the time he keyed in, his fingers had stopped shaking, but the restlessness remained. He dropped his keys on the counter, unzipped his jacket, and stood in the dark for a long moment, just listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet whirl of the air.

The silence was thick enough to drown in.

He didn’t bother with lights. Instead, he poured a double of whiskey and stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the pool of amber in the glass in the dark. There was a moment— just a second— where he wanted to throw it against the wall and watch it shatter, to see what it would feel like. But that was pointless. He wasn’t angry, not really. Not at Johnny, not even at himself.

It was you.

Or, more accurately, it was the idea of you: the possibility that you’d seen him tonight, and the way his gut twisted at the thought of your eyes meeting his across that crowded room. He hated himself for the panic, but what terrified him more was the sliver of relief. Relief that you hadn’t seen him, that he still had his mask, that the worlds hadn’t overlapped— yet.

Not safe, he thought. None of this is safe.

And yet, tomorrow he will be waiting with a lit cigarette.

Well, I’m still fond of you…

The morning that followed, Captain Price had called the 141 in for a meeting. Simon was considerably late, seeing as he arrived to his office with no tea waiting for him like usual. No bother, he’d just make his way to the mess hall and brew himself one. Then he found out the kitchen staff had relocated almost everything, so he rummaged through every cabinet and drawer to find where the herbs were stashed and of course it just had to be the very last one he checked. Cursing under his breath, realizing the time, he went to grab the carton of milk to give it a little splash only for him to find chunky particles in the milk.

Perhaps your wish upon a star was for him to have the worst luck ever.

Simon stormed into the presentation room damn near 10 minutes late with a milk-less tea that tasted like shit, which he wouldn’t know that it had to do with the teaspoon of honey you’d add to his tea. A little sweetness to sweeten him up, you’d think. The mess hall was also on the other side of the building, how you managed to make his tea, run it to his office, and make it back to Price’s office for your tasks was beyond him. Your eagerness to make his day easier carried you through it. He couldn’t be mad at you for the lack of cuppa on his desk when he knew it wasn’t required of you.

Price started off his morning meeting with a lecture about punctuality, an eyebrow raised at his second in command. Simon was scowling under his surgical face mask, arms crossed as he sat in the corner of the room. He hated that he could smell your cup of tea that was definitely made just the way he liked it.

Price had tasked Simon with paperwork, which was a surprise to Simon but not to the captain.

“What’s got you so irritable about doin’ paperwork? Y’seem to fair fine every other time I’ve had you check on forms.” Only Simon doesn’t remember touching any paperwork other than post op paperwork. So this had nothing to do with him, right?

Simon finds himself feeling lost in what he should be looking for. He stares blankly, blinking a few times and Price notices this.

“Alright lieutenant, I’m gonna need you to go to Archives to retrieve the paperwork you finished last week and cross reference this morning’s paperwork so you can catch yourself up on whatever it is you seem to be missing.” Price doesn’t have time to be concerned about whatever’s got Simon stuck, though he just chalks it up to a bad day, he just needs the work done.

Does he even remember where Archives is? He remembers it was in the west wing in one of the southern corridors, just not the room number. Easily enough, the room he’s looking for has a sign in uppercase text to point him where he needs to be.

A soldier of his ranking gives him the utmost clearance, so he’s confused as to why the office people stare at him. Well, maybe it’s because he’s wandering aimlessly trying to find where his damn filing cabinet would be. He opens drawer after drawer and finds a pattern that everything is alphabetized by last name so when he gets designated filing cabinet, he can’t help but notice how unfamiliar it seems. It’s not at all how he remembers it and suddenly he can’t remember the last time he was here.

He pulls the drawer open to find your neat handwriting on yellow manilla folders. Each report, incident report, post op were filed so neatly — everything had been separated by year, into quarters, into months. It made it quick and easy for you to find whatever you needed and you knew if Simon needed to do his own reports for whatever reason that you couldn’t (like you wishing upon a star to dismiss your feelings for him or whatever) it would make it easier on him. His fingers brushed against the tops of each folder, pulling out a random report and true as day, your handwriting was found on documents that were his responsibility.

He gathers the documents he needed and was starting to make his way back to his office to work on his paperwork.

“Finally gave your sergeant a vacation?” the office manager calls out from behind Simon. He turns on his heel to see an older woman, greying hairs and glasses that were connected to a chain that fell around her neck. Simon grunts in acknowledgment, not knowing how to respond before trudging on.

In his office, he finds Soap waiting for him with a tray and a fresh cup of tea. Black. How he took it before you. “Mornin’ LT, brought ye lunch since I dinnae see ye in the mess hall.” the MacTavish boy grins. Simon slaps the documents on the table, glancing at his wrist watch.

Christ Almighty, was it lunch time already?

“Shit, what a fuckin’ long day,” Simon’s palm runs across his face as he takes his seat, letting out a sigh of exasperation.

“Aye, I ‘aven’t seen you so stress since… well… maybe yesterday.” Soap pokes at the masked man. “Or with paperwork still to do at noon.” Soap also checks his watch and runs his hands over the archived documents, eyes finding your handwriting.

“Apparently, one of my other sergeants has been taking care of it for me,” Simon name drops you specifically, though Johnny didn’t need to be told that. Not when the paperwork with your pretty scribbles was right in front of him.

“Hm, this doesn’t have to do with your tardiness this mornin’, does it? I don’t think they made you a tea. Did you tell them to piss off or somethin’?”

“Why would I tell them to piss off?”

“Because it was bloody obvious that they fancied you, yeah? I reckon if you were interested back, you’d have said something by now.”

Right…so maybe it wasn’t bloody obvious. Simon’s dead fish eyes were on full display, blinking cluelessly at his best friend. Almost as if he was waiting for Soap to burst out laughing and say he was kidding.

“Mate, please tell me yer joking.”

“Johnny, does it look like I’m joking?”

“Well, I can tell ya yer funny-looking, but I’m not sure about joking.”

Simon rolled his eyes, no longer having the motivation to do whatever it was Price needed him to do. Though, the motivation was never there. Which was why you always did it for him. A knock at the door causes Simon to groan, face palming once more. He could not catch a break and whoever was at the door was not going to make it easy.

Gaz pokes his head in, waving to the boys. “Good afternoon sir, I’ve got a few incident reports to follow up with you on. Price mentioned I might need to sit with you since you had a lot on your plate from the workload he gave you earlier.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘ave a seat.” Simon grumbles. He isn’t even thinking about food, so he pushes his tray to the side to make room for Gaz and his paperwork.

“Simon’s losing it without his pet,” Johnny feels the need to update his peer. “He didn’t even know they fancied ‘im.” Gaz’s face pales in an alarming way, eyes wide and Johnny thinks Gaz has fizzled out the way he’s stopped blinking.

“What d’ya mean he didn’t know?” Gaz turns to Simon who’s seemingly more interested in the ceiling as he overthinks every single interaction he’s ever had with you. “Y’mean to tell me, you weren’t purposely ignorin’ their advances at you?”

“Well, m’not exactly the ideal boyfriend. Didn’t think they saw me in that way, I thought they were jus’ bein nice.”

“Following you around in their free time? You think that’s just being nice, mate?”

“Aye, lay off, Simon’s jus’ as dumb as he looks apparently.” Johnny earns a glare from his lieutenant. “That’s b’sides the point. Where have they fucked off to anyway?”

“Might’ve had something to do with that,” Gaz’s eyes don’t meet his lieutenant or Soap’s eyes.

“What’d you do?” Simon sits up, straightening his back. His thoughts are suddenly filled with some altercation where Gaz grips your shoulders and yells at you to get over your little crush, out of character, nothing that Kyle would actually do. But he fears it.

“They were proper griping about this unreturned crush they had on you, mate. So, last night on our walk home from the pub, we saw a shooting star and I may have told them to wish that they didn’t like you anymore.” Gaz sinks in his chair as Simon’s eyes grew more intense, not a word coming from his mouth.

“Y’did what?” Soap almost looks like he wants to laugh, he thinks it some sick joke Gaz has improv’d. “A wish on a star?”

“Well it worked, didn’t it?” this sends Soap into a thought of realization and it shuts him up. Gaz didn’t think the wish would have truly worked, hell, he’s only half sure that’s the reason you’ve distanced yourself from Simon.

Simon seems to be conflicted. As unaware as he is, he is aware to the fact that he only noticed your little crush on him when it was gone. And it only affected him when he wasn’t on the receiving end of how it positively benefited him. Would it really be fair of him to chase you?

Maybe it wasn’t written in the stars, you two… But it didn’t mean he couldn’t try. After all, you only wished that you were never smitten with him. Not that you could be (future tense) smitten with him.

Simon is kissing you. Or— your kissing Simon. Does it matter? The point is you’re kissing each other. 

Every time Simon’s head moves you can feel the scar on his lips bushing against yours, besides that his lips are soft and carpeted. Tasting just faintly of the ice cream you both shared after dinner. 

That’s what you both should be doing. Cleaning up the dishes that are in the sink. But somewhere between flicking water at Simon and him teasingly critiquing your washing skills you both just started kissing. 

And it’s amazing, wonderful. Having another person so close to you and feeling their heat radiate through their clothes just because of such a simple act. 

Or it was great. 

Everything was fine up until Simon lifted you onto the counter. Slotted in between your legs never breaking the continuous kiss. And even that was okay. 

But when Simon’s calloused hand snuck it’s way under your shirt. And grabbed at the unprotected skin. That’s when it got too much. Reality set in and oh my shit what were you doing?!? 

This was Simon fucking Riley. He trains at a military range and probably does a million pushups one handed for all you know (if his tidy house is anything to go by.) and you— well the clothes that are on are clean at least, but you do have to calculate the last time you did an everything shower. 

Your— legs are probably hairy. Your bra and underwear do not match; In fact, they’re probably the oldest pair you have and not in the least bit sexy. No makeup, no perfume, and all the self-confidence was left at the front door. Point is you’re jealous and scared of his body compared to yours. 

On one hand you know you shouldn’t care, this is all in your head, one moment you weren’t thinking about anything while kissing Simon. And the next you’re overthinking everything with just one little misplaced hand. 

But is it so wrong to want to be at least presentable for your boyfriend? 

“Simon—“ 

You suck in a breath and pull away. Hand shooting down to where his arm is under your top. Everything suddenly chills. Cold air brushes over your lips and it’s like you’re both frozen in place. 

Simons eyes don’t help. They’re blue and glossy like the bright sky, but still stone cold. Like a storm is rumbling behind those irises. Will he be upset if you tell him to stop? 

“I…” you gently push his hand away from under your shirt and it feels a little bit like a broken promise. “I don’t think… Now is the right time.” 

It’s just a few simple words. You don’t know what you were expecting. But it wasn’t his monotone response. 

“Okay.” 

It’s such a him thing to say. One word. No inquiries after. Just okay. 

That doesn’t really clear your mind, even when he takes a step back and you slip off the counter your anxiety still spikes. 

Worse, guilt now gnaws at your heart when you see a bulge in his pants. Pressed up thick against his sweats aching for attention. He adjusts it casually like you weren’t even there. 

“Sorry—“ you stumble out. It’s like you could feel the weight of your guilt sinking into the floor. Disappearing would be better than having to explain yourself. “It’s just…. Well it would be better if we did this later right?” 

“Right.” 

Simon agrees and you don’t know if he’s doing that just to please you or if he has some insecure thoughts that he doesn’t want to share either. 

“Sorry.” 

You whisper one last time and try to turn back to washing the dishes. But not before Simon presses a kiss to your cheek. Soft and swift, near your jawline. 

“Don’t be.” 

You’ve contemplated that day a lot. And now with shaven legs and a matching lingerie you feel slightly better. 

It’s hard to come to terms with it but your relationship with Simon is progressing. And one of the next steps is sex. He would have to see you naked sooner or later. 

Honestly, it’s a little silly thing to be worried about. Compared to all the bloody-ness Simon sees on the field you should be a treat right? But that thought doesn’t just stop insecurities rising, it only holds them back like an overflowing door. 

Maybe that’s how you’ve gotten so far. 

Laying on Simon’s bed and hearing the rain pitter patter outside. One of the first official times you’re sleeping at his house and you think you know where it’s going. Especially when Simon kisses your neck like that. Smooths your hair out of the way. 

There’s no rush to have sex— obviously. But this… tension? It escalated on its own. Like your body was calling to be on Simon’s bed and mind begging you to just take him. 

There’s his ache between your legs that gets more prominent the more Simon grunts in your ear. The way his breath hitches when pulling away from a kiss. Everything he does has a fire built in in your core. 

Except when his hand goes up your thigh. 

It should feel good because he’s right where you need him. But what will Simon say when he pulls the jeans down and see threads of stretch marks? Overly soft skin and lingering doubts? 

“Simon—“ 

You hold his hand. Stopping him for a moment. He looks up, bright blue eyes curiously looking into yours. 

“This….” You shake your head a little. Swallowing your nerves. Simon is very cooperative; he stopped the first time you asked and he picks out restaurants where he knows you will like the food there. Asking him to twist this one thing shouldn’t be that hard. “This is going to sound terribly cliche but… can we turn the lights off?” 

It would help, ideally. If he just closed his eyes and focused on the feeling instead of the looking. Hands running up your curves and actually watching are two different things and you think maybe taking it step by step would be easiest. 

Simon looks up at you. And he doesn’t move for a long time— well its written a long time but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of beats of your heart. It just felt like a long time with how the silence was drawn out. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way love.” 

Simon starts to sit up and his voice is already making your heart sink. Fuck fuck fuck you messed it all up and now he’s completely turned off by your unwillingness. Or your lack of confidence. Or literally anything else! 

“But if ‘m gonna sleep with you I want it done right.” 

He leans up and presses a tender kiss to your lips. It doesn’t feel upset, or angry, or gross. It feels good. Soft. And his words settle into your mind like a fallen glass bottle into the ocean. 

“Gonna wait until you’re ready ‘t show me all of you.” 

his words are kinda romantic in its own twisted way. 

“That might be a long time…” you whispered. Simon lays right beside you and his arm comes to hook around your shoulder, pulling you in tight against him. Nothing feels wrong about this now. 

“S’okay.” He mumbles. And only turns the lights out now to fall asleep. 

“I’ve got time.” 

You're a new addition, somewhat. It's been a year fighting alongside you — one gruesome, filled with nightmarish missions, and paradoxically, one of the more pleasant years he's had in a long while.

Melted right into the team, brought along a new set of skills they were in desperate need of; and you don't tolerate their bullshit, which was coincidentally removed some of the main issues they've always had on ops. It's almost nice, except the word sounds so foreign, he hesitates to you it. He's never really cared that much, always convinced that any new person being shipped out with them would either run off screaming and sobbing, or return in a body bag. No point getting attached, then; or bother to socialize and get to know one another. Try as he might, this job is all about casualties. Neither side is ever excluded from that equation. So he wasn't expecting much, even if the reviews on your files have been downright glowing. It did make his brain itch, when he couldn't find a weakness, anything wrong or debilitating that could prove dangerous for the team. Turns out, there's a bit of a people problem in you — a strongly worded dislike, a show of disrespect. Most of it stemmed from your defiance, a never-ending fight burning like a raging fire, no matter how many times someone tried to snuff it out. It's why he never said anything, content to watch as that rage ignited for them, as opposed to at them. Your old teams were wee cunts, it would seem.

There was a lot more in your files than he's comfortable admitting he's seen, however. A history similar to his own, someone forged in blood and pain, death chasing you around like a black cloud. It's there, sometimes — eyes darkening, demeanor changing, putting even him on guard. But as soon as he clocks it, it's buried again, forced to retreat back into its cage. Ghost's still impressed, and stops being an arsehole once it becomes clear that you're here to stay. Doesn't get friendly right away, not by any means, but the animosity he usually exudes gets turned down a notch, just so Soap can stop pestering him, saying he's going to make you leave. The sergeant's met with a scoff each time — as if one guy in a Halloween costume could ever make you do anything. He's already seen enough to know that you're a wall. Standing tall, chin raised; nothing has been able to shake you, so far. It's a steel resolve, one he's seen demolished by lesser things than the one they face on a good mission, so he feels pretty confident that you don't feel an ounce of fear when looking at him.

You're smart too, way too much for the likes of them. Sure, they got their skills, their impressive records; Soap's a demolition expert, Price is a damn good strategist, but you're intelligent. Not so much in your face that he transfers back into third grade, being scolded by his teachers, telling him to pay attention, Riley. You use your knowledge to their advantage, always explaining shit in a way even an ape could understand it, and he found himself starting to ask you questions. Random things that always bothered him, or he just couldn't be fucked to look up and read about — it seems to make you happy, having someone to share the things you know; and if his face warms at the bright smile you throw his way each time, the way you start softening up around him, well, no one has to know.

Ghost refuses to spend even a second thinking about feelings. They're bothersome, useless to him and prove weaknesses over time — something he doesn't have, anyway. He's not stupid, though. He has them, burying them so deep they can't ambush him when he's awake, only worming their way into his dreams, when the control slips, and he has no way to fight back. Before, it became as easy as breathing; turning off that side of him that reacts emotionally, more than content to stare blankly at anyone daring to approach him, forcing his body and mind to just work, with no other distraction present. Of course, it all goes to hell when you come into the picture.

He feels possessed, at times. Like something's taking over him, making him act on instinct, animal like. Out there, it's helpful. At base, when all he can do is watch, without the courage to act, is not. It's all he does, nowadays. Has his duties, but gets them done before he can even feel an ounce of time pass by, and the rest of the days are spent on looking. Observing recruits, the team; physically present, but not truly contributing. He knows the lads don't mind, more than used to their silent lieutenant, but as much as his gaze used to wander around, or fixate on a specific spot, now it's trained solely on you. He's memorized every single detail, devouring little pieces like a hungry dog. You catch him, you must, but he receives no complaints. One time you questioned him, brow tilted up and eyes sparkling like a challenge, but it was that moment that his brain decided to abort the mission, forcing him to look away and then wallow in that one situation for over four hours. He couldn't sleep, and if he felt like a creep all his life, this seemed like a new low. Nothing changed, though. You still talked to him, still traded cigs and kept him company while on watch. Ghost still asked stupid questions, and you answered.

Something still bothered him, once he got over himself and decided to analyse you in full. Efficiency was something he demanded, and there was never a problem with it when it came to how you performed your duties; neither was responsibility and an attention to detail. You fought well, even managing to take him down on the mats once, after which he forbade himself to spar with you — the half-chub he was sporting for the rest of the day was a humiliation ritual he has no need of repeating. Doesn't mean he didn't watch, though. Went over how you moved with your weapon, how you aimed and fired, the recoil barely phasing you, no matter what weapon you chose. It was still not enough. There was always something brimming, just below the surface, almost invisible to everyone but him. Like you were holding back, like nobody has truly seen what you're capable of, at least not yet. Ghost understood, to a degree. Never let anyone see a weakness, and hold your cards close until it is time to reveal them. Having an ace up your sleeve is all well and good, almost commendable, but he fears that's not the reason you're refusing to cross a certain line. He doubts its ethics, or morality — you've all done some deplorable shit, and each time makes it less and less meaningful. It becomes robotic, almost; the violence and brutality something now ingrained, fused with your souls. It's impossible to shake off, and frankly, useless. If all of you don't die in the field, well, that would be the real miracle.

He doesn't get much more chances to go over his theories, or even try to interrogate you, a little. Laswell sends them into a hellhole, and as it stands, it's half a dozen of armed man versus a bleeding Ghost, and you.

The backup is held up in the other side of the compound, Price heaving and barking into their comms like there's no tomorrow. Everyone is screaming, actually; whether it's Gaz shouting for cover, Soap trying to get an update on the situation, or Kate being the quiet in the storm, yet still failing to hide her own anxiety about this entire situation. It's a shit show, is what it turned out to be. Ghost's been exhausted, sent out to missions back to back with no time to rest, but in his head — there was no rest. Not for men like him. So he trudged on, lied to his Captain's face that he's good to go, as ready as he'll ever be. Besides, the idea of you being out here alone was enough to jump him back into action. The plan was simple, but it required you to stay in one place, while the rest of the squad dealt with the other. Problem is, this side of the building was supposed to be relatively clear, with the lads setting off an alarm and drawing all the attention to themselves. Data retrieval can be tricky, which is why it's usually done with more stealth involved, but this time they were out of options, and desperate enough to try going in hard.

It's going swimmingly, really. His eyes keep going cross-eyed, there's blood pooling beneath his uniform, and you're injured. The hopes of getting out of here are thinning by the minute; he believes in you, knows how good you are, but this is neither the right time nor space for that to shine. It's a bad situation, one that gives you a slim chance of dying quick and painless, at best. They've never really been that lucky, though. He's tuned the rest of the team out, focused solely on your form, and the drive filled to the brim with intel, something so crucial they abandoned all sense of reason and decided on this deranged plan. He watches your hands clench, breath rattle your entire chest, form still maintained and promising to not go out without a fight. Ghost smiles, faint and bloody, committing a sight that he may never see again to memory.

It's of course then that you decide to stop holding back.

He manages a blink, before you move faster than he's ever seen you. It's brutal, efficient, and soon the cocky smiles start disappearing off the soldier's faces. One gets stabbed, the other's neck snaps so loud, the sound reverberates in his skull. Grabbing a pistol, you whip someone hard enough to send his blood flying in Ghost's direction, smearing over his mask and essentially bathing him in the blood of your enemies. His heart is pounding, eyes tracking every movement and marvelling at the force of you. Slowly hoisting himself up and propping against the wall, he makes himself comfortable — it's a show of his lifetime. The way you fight, no longer afraid of something yet to be named, all fury and relentlessness, it's beautiful. You're panting, covered head to toe in red, stalking the ones that try to escape — they thought themselves the hunters. You've proved them wrong. There's a brief moment where someone guns for him, and doesn't get far. You intercept, applying more force than necessary to just kill a man, trying to break him apart instead. Ghost's starting to feel feral, along with a element of pure disbelief at the notion that somebody is trying to protect him. The whole thing's a bloody affair, one that won't leave his mind until he inevitably dies, but whatever rough retort he felt like making is cut off when you turn back, pinning him to the spot with the intensity of your gaze. Normally, in this situation, he'd mock, scoff and pounce, unable to bear feeling trapped, but there's something almost secure in the way you make him feel. It's swiftly followed by panic, when you realize what you've just done, and soon your eyes avert like the sight of him burns you. Couldn't you see? Couldn't you see what you're doing to him?

By the time Price and the rest of the boys burst in through the door, it's all over. You're standing there, a pile of bodies surrounding you, slightly shaking. The energy is depleting, and he can see the drop about to happen. Thankfully, before he can try and move his hanging on by a thread body, Soap's there, catching you when you stumble. You brace against him, head slowly turning, eyes locked on him. There's still wildness in them, mirrored in his own. That stare seems to last for hours, even if it's mere seconds for the rest of them. It fuels him enough to stay awake, to watch over you as medics rush over in the helo and get to work. Price pats you on the back, whispering something in your ear that makes you stiffen. Still, it's clear you force your muscles to relax, handing over the drive and casting one last look at Ghost, who has yet to look away. You're mulling something over, gaze clouded and analytical, before coming to some sort of conclusion. Lips twitching, you give him a nod, one that he reciprocates in a stiff and jerky motion. He doesn't know what you thought about, doesn't know if you just gazed into his soul and pulled every last, decaying bit of him out to inspect; but he has a strange feeling that either way, he's fucked.

If he was staring before, it's starting to gain a criminal status, now. There's nothing to be done about it, as far as Ghost's concerned. Each time he looks away, some force pulls his eyes back to you. There was a brief moment in his psyche where he almost felt enraged — how dare you pull his attention away from things that actually matter, turn his carefully forged concentration into a mindless mess? But then he realized you've become a part of the Task Force, therefore putting yourself in the important things to Ghost list. He stopped bothering to try and hide his blatant stalking after that. Not like you're unaware of it, and he's seen you chew people out for less; but never once have you went over and jammed a fist down his throat. The thought doesn't sound as unappealing as it should.

Which is how he knows this is becoming a problem. At first, he thought your realization in the plane was the catalyst to him yet again losing people because of his inability, the inept uselessness his father always drilled into him. Each time he tried to talk to you on base, you were nowhere to be seen. It wasn't till he heard how Soap whined that you were avoiding everybody that his frail nerves relaxed a bit. Still, it brought a new worry, one that forced him into drastic measures. Like making you tea and leaving it while you were off doing God knows what; or replacing the finished pack of cigs when he realized you were almost done. Slowly, you began to reappear, almost shyly entering their space once more, but not without a certain level of clueless demeanor about the entire situation that no one bought. You had no intention of discussing your hiding, but if you were coming back to life, he took it as a small victory. Ghost felt like a small child, learning how to be human — those small gestures were clumsy, almost like he's never done a nice thing for another person in his life; coupled with the hours he spent overthinking even doing such a thing, aware that you'd know it was him, was just the cherry on top.

It was late, when the breakthrough came. Smoking outside one of the older building's at base, the sun almost fully set, he was furiously rubbing his face, as if that would help the raging migraine that's been plaguing him for the entire day. He felt like utter shite, restless yet exhausted; and the new batch of rookies that came in that morning got to feel it. Price buried him under a pile of paperwork, that despite the steadily blurry vision he felt worsening, had to be done. The office got stuffy, cramped, and he needed to get out, before the walls caved in on him and his control slipped. Outside, he could finally breathe, albeit a bit more strained than he'd like. Lost count on how many he smoked, how much time passed. He just watched the world slowly invite darkness in, allowing the sun to retreat back into its confines; a captive star, more powerful than anyone could imagine, free, and yet caged to the same fate over and over again.

Then the sun comes back up. Holding out a cup for him.

You look down on his crumpled form, and with a nudge, he makes space for you to sit next to him. It's awkward, a bit, and despite his reluctance to endure any more interactions today, your presence doesn't bring the pain forth, not like it did with literally everyone else today. He might be delusional. There's also the matter of you magically taking out a capsule of what he knows to be the proper migraine medication, a prescription he never bothered to fill out again, despite it actually helping. Call it an aversion to drugs, fear, whatever — point is, you're holding it out like a bottle of water to a man dying of thirst in the middle of the desert. Thinking he must hallucinate this, he eyes the pill like it's going to attack him, before turning his attention to you and trying to convey his rising suspicion through the mask.

You shrug, putting the cup down and looking up at the starts faintly appearing in the sky. He smells the tea, knows it's his favorite one just by one whiff, and yet he can't look away from you — fake light casting a shadow over the side of your face, much like you hide the part of you that he knows wants to come out more than on one, shitty mission where there's no other option. Instead of vocalizing all of this thoughts, he just continues staring, hoping that the answer to all of his questions will just pop up out of thin air.

"I get 'em too. Saw you squinting and rubbin' your temples earlier. Gave the newbies something nasty to dream about, I bet. Just… Take it. Pain isn't the default setting, Ghost." You speak, soft enough to not rattle any loose screws in his head, firm enough that he can't refuse.

He reaches into your open hand, fingers brushing against one another for a second, leaving behind goosebumps and electricity. Hoping you didn't see the goosebumps erupting on the bare minimum of his exposed skin, he busies himself with taking a sip of the tea. It's fucking perfect, of course. Had to have been, otherwise it wouldn't have been made by you. Ghost's head thunks against the wall, eyes closing briefly and waiting in anticipation for the medicine to kick in. He can barely focus, trying to form a coherent sentence and coming up blank, only now connecting the dots. You saw him. Meaning you've been watching, or at least glanced long enough to spot the signs. It shouldn't make him giddy, pleased and borderline excited — all emotions previously thought foreign for him, and yet. There's a slight smile tugging at his lips, a mere twitch of his lips, and it's then that he remembers that the lower half of his face is showing.

"Hope they help. You need 'em, just come to me, ay? I got your back, Ghost." You say, thankfully still averting your eyes.

It's respect. You're giving him privacy and looking away, because you want to honor the fact that his face is a closed guarded secret, something only few people alive have the privilege to see — rarely, at that.

"I know you do. Thanks." It's strangled, the words. Barely coming out of his mouth, but managing anyway.

He's almost proud, the way you turn your head sideways to glance at him, your eyes catching his staring back right away. Feeling loopy (and reminded of why he never got that prescription refilled), he doesn't bother hiding the adoration in his gaze, or the reverent way he's drinking you in. In awe, almost, this insane, dead man, reduced to a puddle just by one look send his way. You scan him, the entirety of the lower-half of his face, now that you realize he won't throw a fit; and he's getting frustrated by his inability to get a proper read on you, now. You're good, is the thing, and on a level that surpasses even Ghost, when it comes to matters of infiltration. You've doe undercover before, multiple times, if the shit he read in your file are to be believed, so it's no surprise that you'd be a master at hiding every single expression, but it's getting to him like nothing else. He hasn't spent so many hours on watching you and learned nothing, though. There's something there, surprise, disbelief, body closing off in an attempt to protect, avert, hide. That, he's seen enough times to recognize, and it pulls his lips into a frown.

You change the subject, then, talking in that quiet, muted voice. Things that mean nothing, work, events he's missed, gossip. It's a bore, and that's exactly what it's supposed to be. He doesn't fall asleep (although it gets close), but you put him in that state where nothing matters — nothing except for you. Just your tone is enough to dull the throbbing pain, put him in a state of of a light doze; relaxed, like he hasn't been in a while. You're there for minutes, or many hours. It doesn't really matter. When you deem it's time for him to hit the sack, you help him up, chuckling under your nose and heaving this gigantic man all the way over to his quarters. The sound managed to lull him into a fulfilling sleep like nothing ever has. He's sure of it.

Shit goes wrong all the time, they're a living proof of that. However, the usual case demands that when it happens, they're together to face it. Ghost learned the hard way that a lack of backup might make his conscience rest easy, or allow him to work in blissful peace and quiet, but it also means that he's alone. No teammates to rely on, no one to rescue, or come collect the body. He still accepts the missions, albeit rarely; the task force changed him. He hasn't decided whether that's a good thing or not.

When he tries to find you one afternoon, ready to hear you yap for hours and finds nothing, his thoughts turn to the worst possible scenario. Price winces when he barges in, almost like he was expected, but he's in no state of mind to dwell on the fact. It's not like he's being very subtle with his obsession. Still, that reaction is not a good sign.

"Solo op. Requested, I had little to say about that." The Captain responds, watching as Ghost processes the information, scowling under his mask and glaring at him.

Price rolls his eyes, and kicks him out of the office once it's clear he has nothing else to say on the matter. He knew this was a possibility, it's their job for crying out loud, but it doesn't make him feel any better. The rationalization is a tool he's taken advantage of in the past, with success, so the fact that this time it does nothing to quell the raging fire burning inside of him says a lot.

He keeps himself busy, then. Runs around the base like a lunatic, picking up task after task to not allow his mind a moment to think. It works, until night comes in. Then he's plagued with a new set of nightmares, with a starring role going to your dying form; sometimes you plead for help, and he's unable to move, and sometimes it's your corpse, already decaying and asking why he wasn't there. Simon's exhausted before the end of three days, and it's felt around the base. Most people avoid him on a good day, but now it seems even Soap is maintaining a distance — after Ghost snapped at him during training, he doesn't blame him. It's a disaster, and he keeps trying to drill into his head that this needs to stop, that he needs to pull himself together and move the fuck on; it works about as well as banging his head against a wall.

Lying in bed in the middle of the night and staring at his ceiling is the only way to survive it, if he's being honest. Deprivation beats whatever deranged image his mind might conjure up if he allows his eyes to slip shut. The base is quiet, rain slowly pattering on the window, and normally, those conditions would actually allow him a little bit of rest. As it stands, all he can think about is your form, lying in mud, the dribble washing away any sign of you. Price gave him no updates, merely shrugged, but it was clear that the man is not happy about this situation either. You got under their skin, melted right into the team like you had a spot there all along, and having you gone means that they're all getting antsy. You've proven yourself, offered assistance when needed, protected them — and now none of them are able to return the favor. It's driving him insane, this lack of information, not knowing, being useless.

His self-deprecating spiral is interrupted when there's a knock on his door. Jolting and almost tripping in his haste to open the door, he doesn't even bother keeping up any appearances — he looks like shit, and feels like it too. No one at this hour would dare to bother him, so it must be important. When he yanks the door open with a bit too much force, he's met with the sight of your equally as exhausted form, and wide eyes. He stares openly, scanning your entire form like he's performing a check-up. In a way, he is, because the list of visible injuries are racking up way too fast for his liking. You don't speak, letting him do whatever it is he's doing in silence, remaining still and motionless. Your shoulders are sagged, the weight of the mission heavy; and he can tell it wasn't pretty. He notes a few bandages already peeking out of your shirt, and his jaw clenches. His chest expands under the enormous breath he takes in order to restrain himself, and he finally steps aside to let you in.

Doesn't question you, doesn't bother asking about the mission, Price, or why you're here of all places; but he knows that after days of radio silence, sitting idly on his arse and tearing his hair out at the thought of you being gone, he'll take this chance to finally act. You're sans bag, so the first thing you do is bend down, trying to unity your shoelaces. There's no curious glances thrown around his room — you've been here before, and not much has changed. Neither of you are a fan of it. Change. But he's tired, and observing from afar is suddenly no longer enough. He has to get closer, has to confirm that you are in fact in front of him, breathing and alive. Desperate for it like a hungry dog, before your fingers skim your shoes, he's already falling to his knees, awkwardly replacing your hand and undoing the boots himself. You stare down in mild shock, but it's quickly replaced by raw understanding, and a softness that would send him on the floor anyway, so it's a good thing he's there already. He feels his knees buckling under the pressure of your eyes, so many emotions finally coming to light. Ghost is careful, tries for gentle, not used to it. It's probably a laughable image — this terrifying soldier, down on the ground, fumbling around like a stupid mutt, clumsy and shaky in his demeanor. He startles slightly, when he feels your hand hesitantly land on his head, and realizes with a stupefying pang, that your cool, collected and seemingly indifferent approach was something right of his own playbook. It's a front, a mask, to hide what's truly underneath; whereas his monster was thrown into the light, yours was buried deep inside, meant to hide and conform. This, however, is mutual, so similar he feels like he gets electrocuted; the inexperience, the fear — of something good, of care and intimacy, allowing yourself to give instead of take, is something shared, both of you fumbling in the dark, but this time, no longer on your own.

He takes his time, then. Undresses you slowly, mends the wounds deemed not important enough for a medical emergency, and helps wash away the grime and dust sticking to your skin in the aftermath of whatever horror brought you back to him. Shudders, when you pull him in, breathes your scent and clings like you're a lifeline, once that barrier is crossed. His mind is finally empty, silent, in a way that's become a comfort with you around. This isn't some carnal satisfaction; it's raw, unbridled need, but not for anything regarding the body. He's just close, wants to be, and you let him. Kissing his mask, softly, just before falling asleep in his arms, the world shut out — feels like a dream in a sea of nightmares. letting a moment of peace pass through the dark, muddy reality you both live in, it tastes foreign on his tongue, but you don't. There's a familiarity to your relationship now; months spent circling around each other, testing the waters and bearing through the cracks slowly appearing in the fortresses you've both build. Moments of vulnerability, more crucial than his mask, than your front. He knows it all, now, the pieces coming together and forming a clear picture, one meant only for him. You whisper it, in the dead of night, held like something breakable in his arms — that you've known, that remaining further away has been easier, but dying without ever seeing what the lack of distance would be like is something is like an inescapable labyrinth, pulling you in and not letting you leave. His mouth opens, the flood coming in at last, and every last thought is expunged from the hellish place he calls a mind. The moment doesn't pass, it lingers, even as you climb into his lap and fall into him like you were always meant to be there. Breathing proves difficult, and without a shred of doubt, the fabric covering his face, his true face comes off, the Ghost no longer haunting. Simon gives more than he takes, mapping out every crevice of your body and forming a mental map, so he'll never be lost again. Couldn't be, with the way you claw at him and push him deeper, melding your bodies into one. He doesn't know who starts crying first, doesn't know when the frantic movement turns tender. Doesn't care, frankly, because you're still here — tangible, lively and just for him; something he can have, something that could hurt him, but won't. When all is said and done, he watches you watch him. Eyes slipping shut, limbs intertwined, he finally rests. You both do.

Gently, you rest your hands upon his shoulders, and in the silence of the old, creaking flat, the Christmas music from somewhere beyond the window floats in like a high tide, lifting you right off of your feet. You take one step forward, two steps back, and rigidly, he follows, watching his feet move all the way, like he couldn’t quite coordinate them without a direct line of sight.

“You’re awful at this,” you mutter, barely able to look him in the eye.

“You’re the one forcing me to dance.”

“Ghost,” you pin him with a pointed stare and raised eyebrows, “You and I both know that no one could force you to do anything.”

He staggers in a step at those words, but to his credit, he keeps his poker face well enough. He glances out the window. His fingertips feel especially big when they dig into your waist.

“Yeah, well…” he shrugs, “M’here anyway, aren’t I?”

The words only heighten the buzzing in your nerves, the first strike of a match somewhere deep within your soul. The fire hasn’t started, but the intention’s there, just waiting to burst into something pure, bright, and wholly irrevocable. 

You brace for…something. Whatever’s lingering beyond this moment. It’s a terrifying thought, standing on the precipice of this something, and part of you wishes desperately that you could live in this moment forever. But as your feet turn in another circle, and the music flares around another trill, time moves on.

He dances like a robot, you think. You knock your shin into his, trying to shape him up. In response, he only pulls you closer with a deep sound in his throat, telling you off with a single simple gesture.

“God,” you sigh, lazily linking your hands behind his neck, “At least pretend like you had a date to homecoming. I feel like lab rat right now.”

He scoffs, managing to hold your eyes for a second or two, “I didn’t have one.”

So you’ll just have to deal, you can almost imagine him saying. You laugh.

“What?” He scoffs, but it’s really more of a chuckle, “Like you had one either?”

You nearly trip over your own two feet when he pulls you in a slow, hypnotic circle. He’s a quick learner, but hell if you’ll admit that out loud.

“Well—no, but still…We should dance.”

You let him lead you around, hobbling nonsensically about the green strings of tinsel that fell off the mantel. The sound of your shoes hitting the floor is dreadfully loud. Consciously, you try to quiet them—to quiet this instant…in a ditch effort, you lean in, hooking your chin stop his shoulder, too embarrassed to face him.

“I dunno. It’s what you’re supposed to do on Christmas, isn’t it?” You whisper, oblivious to the way your voice sends chills up his spine.

“Not in this century at least,” he whispers back, and his cheek presses into yours momentarily, “But if you want to…I guess it’s not the worst tradition. Not as bad as those bloody decorations, at least.”

You snort, too warm to pick your head up from his shoulder. Around your waist, you feel his arms go lax, your chests flush. It’s not something you’ve ever done before, but you swear you’ve seen it in a movie. Shamelessly, you squish your cheek into his collarbone, your tiny dance transforming into half-minded, gentle sway.

“I don’t know. It kinda feels like the right thing to do.”

“Sure. You think Soap’s out there in Glencoe, dancing wi’ some pretty girl?” He scoffs, “Hardly. Right lie that is.”

“Mm,” you curl your fingers around the back of his neck, your fingers sliding through buzzed, blonde hair, “Well, then, you’ll have something to brag about the next time you see them.”

His chest expands against your own, and you shiver as one of his arms curls around your waist. Even if it’s a minute difference, it’s shockingly intimate.

“Yeah.”

You can feel the baritone rumble in his chest, but even that pales in comparison to the flutter your heart gives when he agrees with you.

Out of his line of sight, you smile wickedly.

Pretty.

He thinks you’re pretty—even if he refused to say it aloud. Ghost never misplaced his words.

“Y’know, you’re not too bad yourself,” you mutter, words muffled against his shirt.

“I didn’t say anything,” he hastily replies.

You pull back for a second, unimpressed. A smirk curves the edges of your mouth; you swear his face looks sunburnt now. His mouth opens on a deep breath when you brush the back of your knuckles against his blazing cheeks.

“Yes. You did,” you refuse to let him get away with the white lie.

A thousand emotions flash across his eyes. Exasperation. Awkwardness. Denial.

Want.

You can see it there, in his eyes, lost between all the names he wants to call you. He was a stubborn man. A bastard. Used to getting his way. 

Perhaps it’s time he met his match.

You brush over the visible blush on his white skin, pinning him with a knowing look. Slowly, you splay your fingers, cupping the hollowed curves of his cheekbone. Nothing in his expression changes. There’s no smile. No laughter. No curses. He only sits there, those blue irises boring deep into your dilated eyes, something unspeakable simmering in his voice box.

“You can tell me to stop, y’know…” you whisper. Your breath fans against his face.

He swallows and his hands tighten around your waist. This time, when he opens his mouth, you swear you can feel his voice caress your very soul.

“Get on it with it.”

Spoken like everything else, it sounds like a command, like exasperation—something to be said by a roll of the eyes, a click of the tongue.

Yet, you’ve known him just long enough to realize he was incapable of anything nicer. You scoff beneath your breath, tonguing your cheek.

There, you look at his face, batting your lashes. Your thumb—bitterly cold in the apartment air—comes to press into his thin, chapped lips. 

He doesn’t move away when you slowly come to your tip-toes. With both hands cupping his jaw, you lean in when he refuses to do it for you—for himself.

Like that, you give him the softest kiss you can manage.

You don’t know that it’s the kindest, most earnest touch a person’s ever given him.

The sound of your lips is chaste, his dry skin against your cherry chapstick. His chest stutters—holding his breath—and when you pull back he lingers there for a moment with his eyes closed, lips still half-opened, as if he weren’t quite ready for you to leave.

Bashful, you try to rescind one of your hands, but he snatches your wrist before you can go more than an inch. Your vision shocks back from his lips and onto his expression, heart beating so hard it’s nearly leaping from your chest.

His eyes…god, they’re wide now, desperate. All that bravado, all that nonchalance—they’re gone, revealing a swirling, bruising, burning ache.

He holds fast when you tug again, and he takes a single staggering step when you try to fall back. His shoulders drop with something dire and heavy, and before you can comprehend it, he leans over you to press his lips against yours once more.

It’s soft, too—his best approximation of it, at least. He’s stiff, strong, maybe a little out of practice, but the longer his skin stays pressed to yours, the smoother it becomes.

With wide, stunned eyes, you can barely see those blonde eyelashes trembling, wrenched shut in passion, fear, or some other vice. But eventually, it all fades into nothingness.

This time, the squelch of your lips is loud when you suddenly part, identical gasps escaping your mouths as you struggle for air. 

Your hands slowly curl into the fabric atop his biceps, and he holds your arms steadfast, as if he were afraid you’d try to leave. Every facet of your touch is unconscious, drowned out by what passes between your unblinking eyes in that split second.

For a long, long moment, you just stand there together, panting to catch your breath, too afraid to miss the other’s expanding pupils to blink. The way he holds himself, the way his eyes drink in every aspect of your face, your body, your being—it’s unhinged, unimaginable.

And standing there in each other’s arms, your stomach reeling with some potent cocktail of adrenaline and oxytocin, you come to a terrifying, simultaneous realization.

This something that’s between you and him—what you discovered the instant your lips met his…

It runs much, much deeper than it has any right to. Straight through seven layers of skin right to the bone, it pierces you, looking at his plain, bare face, green Christmas lights reflected in the never-ending wells of his eyes.

The edges of your souls—where you begin and he ends—is lost to static, blurred with polychrome when he keels forward and knocks his forehead into yours. It should hurt, but you’re too distracted by the heat of his breath to care.

The grip he has on your wrist falls apart. And soon, it becomes a clumsy, heated hand-hold, fingers intertwined. Your entire body pulses with boiling blood. When he hooks his arm closer around you, pushing your stomach to his, you can feel his heart racing inside of his chest.

God, he’s nervous.

And hell, so are you.

But whatever’s flowing through your veins right now can’t be stopped. No, you can only step further into his space, desperate to find the ecstasy of that first kiss again, and again, and again…

When you lean in this time, it’s not soft. It’s not genial. It’s not waiting for permission.

It’s a demand, a need, one that you inscribe into every inch of his pliable lips. Your spare hand wrenches into his shirt, clenched so hard it’s nearly shaking. Yet, he doesn’t tell you off. If anything, he only holds you closer, hands reverently splayed across your back.

You whimper when you separate, his teeth scraping your bottom lip. Strings of saliva stick to your chin; his lips are nearly as red as his cheekbones.

“Ghost…I—“

“Simon.”

At that, your head raises just enough to display your surprise.

“My name is Simon,” he whispers to you, his fingers squeezing hopelessly where they’re tangled with yours.

The weight of it—those five little letters…

You can feel them singed into your heart.

Barely able to breathe, you cup his face.

“Simon,” you test the sound of it on your tongue. He exhales, closing his eyes, letting it wash over him.

“Simon,” you say again, pulling on his arms.

He kisses you manically then, hastily walking you backwards. You break the kiss with another, wet ‘pop’, trippingover your own two feet in your struggle to get closer to him.

“God, Simon, please—“ you plead, nails scraping down his neck, but before you can even get another word out, he grabs your waist with a single arm and hoists you into his grasp. On reflex, you wrap your legs around his hips, unable to bring yourself to stop kissing long enough to marvel at how strong he is.

Though, even if you could muster the self-restraint, it would’ve been for naught anyway. He can’t bear it either, not even long enough to see where he’s walking.

Blindly, he carries you straight to the bedroom, body heat flaring nearly enough to make you sweat.

-

<><><>

August 11, 1935. 8:01 PM

You paused, wondering if there was anything worth writing about today. A few seconds went by before you simply exhaled, feeling frustration creeping up in your bones. You shut your eyes, feeling the fading sun slowly take away the warmth on your skin. With another breath, you flipped backward through your journal.

August 10, 1935. 7:09 PM

August 9, 1935. 7:39 PM

August 8, 1935. 8:05 PM

You continued to flip through the pages until eventually, you found the last entry you wrote.

June 19, 1935. 7:56 PM

It’s Henry’s birthday today. It’s hard to believe how much time has passed. I finally went to Manhattan the other day and saw that Clara’s hair had turned gray, and Roy and Ella now have children of their own now. Their children run about happily, and yet I can’t help but think that Henry should have been there to see his grandchildren grow up.  

I can only watch them from a distance. I know I promised Henry that I’d stay close to Roy and Ella, but how could I when I look the same age as them now? They would be horrified if they saw me, and I don’t want my niece and nephew to be scared of me. I know Henry said I should tell them one day, but I never will.

How cruel must the world have been to take him away when I could’ve saved him? Of all people, my baby brother. Why can’t I use this curse to help those I love? Henry should be here. Why must this world be so merciless?

When I saw Clara from afar, I saw it in her body. How she carries the weight of Henry’s absence every day. I could’ve saved her husband. Why didn’t the world let me?

Damn this world. I hate it all.

You slammed the journal closed and dropped to the grass, shoving the journal back into the glass jar before hiding it between the rocks again.

<><><>

For the first time in nearly two months, you found a reason to write more than just the time and date.

August 12, 1935. 7:36 PM

I managed to save a boy’s balloon today. He couldn’t have been more than 15 or 16. He had a balloon and a car rushed by him and the wind made him let go of it. It didn’t surprise me. He was small. If the breeze today was any stronger, he might’ve flown off with it. 

The balloon got caught in the tree and he couldn’t reach for it. No one bothered to help him. Perhaps they expected him to man up and move on as if his sorrow over a lost thing was something foolish. Shame on them.

I went over and pulled it down for him. He thanked me, such a polite little thing, all blonde hair and blue eyes. He wasn’t ashamed for a second for letting a woman like me help him. He told me he was bringing the balloon home for his sick mother. What a good boy she raised. I wonder if my baby girl would’ve done the same for me, bringing me a balloon or pastries when I felt unwell.

Regardless, when I watched him leave, I felt wonderful.

You read through your entry one last time, wondering if there were any more details to add. With a soft smile, you closed your book but quickly paused, feeling a familiar sense of longing overcome you again. You hugged the journal, biting your lips while slowly lowering yourself onto the grass again. You stayed like that for a while, letting the sun slowly set.

It was nice to save something so simple.

<><><>

You were aching like hell, stumbling to your brother’s gravestone before falling to the ground. The grass soaked into your knees as you struggled to open the glass jar and release your journal. With trembling hands, you pulled out a pencil and flipped to the latest page, but you paused at your last entry.

August 15, 1935. 7:25 PM

You stared at it before shaking your head, quickly writing down the newest entry before you forgot any details.

September 16, 1935. 6:48 AM

I saved a boy on August 16, and I woke up feeling as if I were made of broken bones.

It feels as though people on the streets have been getting more reckless, driving around like they’re invincible. I was on my way here to write my next entry. I had stopped by the bakery first to get some eclairs. 

On my way here, I saw a boy and his friend. I recognized his friend, it was the blonde boy who had the balloon. This boy, on the other hand, was taller with dark hair. He also looked older than his friend, like 18 or 19, or maybe his friend was so small that I thought he was younger than he actually was. They were walking away from the deli with a bag full of what I could only assume were snacks.

Then they went to cross the street and I felt the pull. I saw the car right then and there so I ran for him. I pushed him out of the way just in time. It hurt. It really hurt. I believe the car that hit me sped away.

I laid there while people screamed around me. The boys were next to me calling for help. The dark haired boy I saved was crying. He had frost blue eyes and asked me to stay awake, but I knew I wouldn’t.

My body was screaming when I woke up, and yet I found myself on my living room floor. The world didn’t even give me the decency to let me wake up in my bed this time.

With a long sigh, you shut the book and tilted your head back, feeling the wind on your skin. Within one month, the morning sun felt cooler, still warm enough to slowly make your skin sticky, but it was clear that autumn was approaching Brooklyn. You looked back down at the journal, suddenly feeling a rush of resentment toward it. Biting your lip, you quickly hid it in its usual spot before you made any regrettable decisions—you’d made a few of those before. You stood up again with a gasp, patting your dress down before walking off.

You had the same routine every time you returned to life: get a new identity and pretend your past self never existed. You used to move to a different home to avoid walking to the same streets, bumping into the same people, but recently stopped as it became too exhausting to relocate every few months. It was just easier to lie and act like those who recognized you were mistaking you for someone else.

The streets were never quiet, but they were emptier, as it was still early in the morning. You sped toward your workplace, knowing your best friend would’ve already arrived. You could see the Riverside Bookshop in the distance, carefully moving past strangers in case someone familiar was among them.

You walked right in with a huff of breath, the bell above the door ringing. Footsteps immediately caught your attention, and you looked up to see a woman in her fifties walking around one of the bookshelves. She went to speak, but she froze.

“Hi, Minnie,” you said, shifting in your stance. “Um, so…”

“You look awful.” Minnie sighed before shaking her head. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” you murmured while approaching her. “I’d say I’m sorry for skipping work, but you already know the drill.”

“You bet I do,” she replied, her eyes scanning you. “You need Lewis to fix you up with a new identity?”

You exhaled with relief in your voice. “I’d appreciate that. Sorry, though. I know it’s only been a few months since—”

She raised a hand to stop you. “Don’t give it a second thought. He won’t mind a bit. It’s a shame, though. Sherry was a nice name for you.”

You nodded in exhaustion, fidgeting with your fingers as you tried to shake off the weight of it all. Minnie was still staring at you, watching you quietly.

“I heard what happened,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she gauged your reaction.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat as you quickly turned to her. “What? How did you—”

“Ada from church told me.” Minnie picked up a stack of misplaced books. “It was inevitable someone would talk about it. The ‘lady who died in a car accident saving a boy,’ you know? It was all anyone was talking about for days.”

A cold shiver ran down your spine. Though you had gone through this process numerous times, it was often in a quieter place, with fewer bystanders to witness your less dramatic death. You stood up straighter as your heart pounded against your chest. “Was…was anyone who knew me there?” you asked, your voice trembling a little.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “None of my friends. All they’ve been calling you is ‘the lady.’ That’s it.”

You let out a deep breath that was restrained, the knot in your stomach loosening. “That’s…that’s good,” you muttered. “No one knows it was me.”

Minnie watched you for a moment before sighing softly. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said, putting one of the books back in its original place. “Die and come back for strangers. Every time.”

Your lips went ajar as you looked at the floorboards. You shrugged, the familiar weight of it all pressing down on you once more. “It’s just…how it is,” you quietly said. “I feel a pull, and I know whoever is in danger right then and there needs saving. It’s like something inside me is telling me to do it. I don’t have a choice.”

Minnie watched you for a moment, her lips pressed together as she let out a slow breath. You could see the sadness in her eyes, though she said nothing. As your childhood friend, she had been with you since you were given this curse, keeping your secret while she grew older. She knew this was how it was, as much as she hated it.

“Do you want to work today, or would you rather take a day off?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

“I’d rather work,” you answered rather quickly. “I feel bad for leaving you alone for a month.”

“We’ve been through this before, and it’s okay.” Minnie grinned before glancing at your knees. “Maybe you want to go home and change, though. Your dress is stained.”

You blinked before glancing down at where the grass had left dirt and morning dew on your knees. You cleared your throat, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Take your time. You just came back.”

You nodded, but you hastily left the store and rushed home, desperate to get right back to organizing bookshelves and cleaning the windowsills.

Right. That was also part of your routine: live your life as if you didn’t die a horrible death a month ago.

<><><>

June 12, 1943. 7:19 PM

June 14, 1943. 9:22 AM

For the first time in a long while, I’m late to write in this journal, and it wasn’t because I died. I ended up going to a little gathering Minnie hosted last night and it was fun. Well, I guess everything is always fun when people don’t really know who you are, right? You can make up any story you want. It’s always a little strange pretending to be Minnie’s niece… But still, it was really nice to find some joy in these times. 

It’s been scary. The war is getting crazier and they’re only dragging more people in. Minnie’s been upset over Robert getting dragged to war. I can’t blame her. She has every right to fear for the safety of her grandson. I’m just worried that she will have a heart attack like Lewis from this whole thing. I don’t want to lose her too. We can only hope that Robert comes back home safe and sound.

You paused, your hand suddenly trembling around your pencil. With a quiet, shaky breath, you finished the entry.

Sometimes, I wish I were on the battlefield next to Robert. Because maybe, if needed, I could save him like I should’ve with Henry.

Setting down the pencil, you shut the book and slid it into your bag under the front table. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to stand up straight. It was hot and empty in the store, the kind of warmth that would annoy the average person, but you were used to it. You tugged on your collar, feeling the fabric peel from your skin, and you groaned. 

Okay, maybe you weren’t used to it as much as you hoped.

“It's hot, isn’t it?”

You looked up at Laura, Minnie and Lewis’s daughter who had taken over Riverside Bookshop since Minnie retired. It was still crazy to you that you watched Laura grow up her entire life, and there she was now, physically older than you. “Yeah, it is.”

Laura chuckled, dusting off the tops of the shelves, “At least we don’t have to spend our day outside.”

You hummed, stepping around the front desk to help with tidying up the store. There was not much to do as they hadn’t had a lot of people come in lately, as the war waged on, but you couldn’t just stand around and do nothing. You wiped down the reading areas, removing the dust from the tables when you heard the bell above the door ring.

“Hello! Welcome in,” Laura greeted the customers with melody in her voice, as if her son wasn’t currently fighting for his life on the other side of the planet. “Let us know if you’re looking for anything in particular.”

You briefly peeked past the shelves to see a boy and a girl. The teenage, dark-haired girl looked around the store in awe while the dark-haired boy—or rather, a young man—in a military uniform watched her with a smile.

“Like I said, you can pick any book you want,” he told the girl, who snapped her head up at him.

“Really? Jimmy, is that alright?”

“Of course it is, Becca,” he laughed, gently nudging her shoulder. “Just don’t tell Annie and Betty. I don’t need them thinking I have a favorite sister.”

“Even though I am?” she teased.

“As long as you’re quiet about it.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at their conversation. It made your heart warm to see siblings get along very well. You and your brother had been very close, with you starting as his protector and then switching roles once he grew taller and stronger than you. Lately, you had seen a lot of siblings argue and fight and refuse to talk to each other altogether. It made you want to scream; you wanted them to understand that their sibling was someone they could always trust to have their back.

So hearing those two giggle as they roamed around the store made your voice soft with your own giggles. You continued to tidy up the store, cleaning off dust from the lovely books and reorganizing any that were out of place. It was nice and calm in the room, and despite the heat, you felt yourself smiling like how your mother would when listening to you and Henry joke around.

Although you did sometimes forget that you were now around the same age as your mother when she passed away. An old lady in the body of a young woman, forever trapped in time.

“My brother is leaving tomorrow.”

You perked your head up, eavesdropping on the girl, Becca, speaking to Laura on your right. “He’s going to fight in the war tomorrow, so he wanted to get me a gift.”

Your smile vanished as you heard Laura speaking, immediately noticing the motherly terror in her voice at learning about the young man’s leave, “I see. That’s sweet of him to get you a gift. You like reading?”

“Honestly, I don’t read much, but my brother reads all the time and he used to share these stories with me. I guess I wanted to read more because of him.”

Her words soothed your heart, and you found yourself smiling again, only with sadness this time. Becca clearly admired her older brother, her voice tinted with sorrow while she put on a brave face for others. You softly sighed, gripping the book in your hand tightly before placing it back on the shelf.

Then, you began to hear someone walking closer on your left. You looked up to see the young man, Jimmy, approach you with a gentle smile, and you immediately grinned back without the sadness.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he started, his warmth radiating off of him, “do you know where I can find—”

He froze, his smile immediately dropping as his eyes locked onto yours. You faltered briefly, perplexed by the loss of warmth in the young man, and—though you didn’t want to admit it—you were slightly intimidated by his gaze. As a horrified frown took over his lips, you took note of his frost-blue eyes.

…Wait.

No, it couldn't—

“Yes?” you quickly spoke, trying to mask the sudden intensity between the two of you. You forced out a lovely smile, though his expression continued to twist. “How can I help you?”

But the young man didn’t reply. He just continued to stare so deeply into your eyes that maybe they were hurting a bit. Or maybe it was because you were trying to keep your own emotions in check. To stop any tears from forming. This was ridiculous—you shouldn’t cry over this, but you couldn’t help but wonder if this was really the boy you—

“It’s you,” he suddenly breathed out, his voice too soft for anyone but you to hear.

You blinked, pretending to be confused when you knew exactly who you were looking at. “I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”

“You—” He suddenly stepped back as if he was staring at a ghost; to be fair, you could be one. His chest heaved and his lips began to quiver. “You saved me. It’s you. It’s—”

You raised both of your hands quickly, plastering more confusion into your face while the concern was real. “Whoa, sir. Are you alright? You don’t look so well.”

“Jimmy?” Becca walked over from behind you, holding a book with furrowed eyebrows. “Jimmy, what’s going on?”

But the young man didn’t respond to his sister. He could only keep his eyes on you, and you could only do the same. Laura joined you all while you took a breath and put on another smile, more gentle and warm than the last, though chills continuously went up your spine. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow what you’re saying…” 

“I…” His hands lightly shook as his eyes shifted all around, taking in your face every possible way. Trying to digest the appearance of the woman who saved his life.

But she was dead. He learned later in the day at the hospital, where he had gone with his mother and his friend to thank the woman, that she had died. That her body had failed on her before she even made it to the hospital and was soon to get buried.

Her name was Sherry.

Upon hearing the news, the boy collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as his mother tried to soothe him. He suddenly remembered the woman’s face so clearly—how the blood heavily coated her skin and light slowly faded from her eyes. It was his fault she died. 

The boy’s friend stood frozen, unable to process the death of the woman, watching his friend crumble before he lost it too.

Because maybe they were a bit more careful, you’d be alive.

You bit the inside of your mouth as Becca reached for her brother's shoulder, gently shaking him. “Jimmy…?”

He suddenly blinked rapidly, realizing his stance, and shook his head. “I, uh—” he cleared his throat and smiled embarrassingly, “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

Laura narrowed her eyes, clearly concerned for the young man. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Um, I’m sorry, ma’am.” He turned his attention back towards you, his gaze no longer intense but now just heavy. “I didn’t mean to scare you out. I… You just look like someone I knew.”

Your stomach coiled. Suddenly, you felt so sick.

Although you couldn’t see her directly, you felt Laura’s eyes on you, realizing what the young man meant by his words. You forced a smile once again, acting like you weren’t dying on the inside. “It’s alright. I’m…I’m sorry that I’m not who you were expecting.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s just… The person you remind me of is very important to me. But that’s no excuse for scaring you. I’m sorry.”

He smiled at you again, but your chest only tightened by the hurt in his eyes. He desperately wished you were the one who saved him all those years ago—the one who pushed him out of the way and died in his stead—the one who he deemed to be very important in his life.

But you were. You really were. But you bit back your words and returned the grin. “It’s alright. It happens.”

He nodded, though the hesitation was evident. He turned to his sister and gestured to the book. “Is that the one?”

Becca, still eyeing him down with furrowed eyebrows, slowly nodded. “Yeah. Jimmy, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m alright.” He nudged her shoulder playfully before taking her book. 

Laura gestured to the desk behind her. “I can take care of that for you at the front.”

Jimmy and Becca followed her to the front desk, their footsteps soft against the worn wooden floor. You lingered behind, drifting toward a nearby shelf and running your fingers along the spines of books. In reality, you were only putting distance between yourself and the young man, as if that could settle the unease curling in your stomach.

Still, even without looking, you could feel him glancing at you. A flicker of attention. A hesitation. A longing.

To force a sense of normalcy, you lifted your head and met his eyes with a polite, easy smile. Nothing too stiff, nothing too strained—just enough to make it seem like everything was fine. He faltered, his fingers curling around the book tighter while his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he exhaled and gave you a small, apologetic smile in return.

He was sorry, but for what? For your lies?

The siblings took their purchase and made their way toward the door—Jimmy didn’t dare to look at you again. The bell jingled as they stepped out, but the second they were gone, you spun toward the front desk. Laura stepped back with a quiet breath, watching you yank your journal from your bag and quickly flip through the pages.

“Auntie?” she said, trying to calm you down, but you couldn’t.

You couldn’t because you knew. You knew. But still, you just had to check. You had to make sure it was really—

The dark haired boy I saved was crying. He had frost blue eyes and asked me to stay awake, but I knew I wouldn’t.

The journal fell from your grasp as you stumbled back into the chair, tripping over it and tumbling to the floor. Clutching at your chest, you bit your lip as you tried to control your unsteady breathing. Laura swiftly kneeled next to you, holding onto your shoulders as she whispered.

“Hey, it’s alright. Auntie, it’s alright.” She glanced at your journal as if it carried some terrible omen. “Do you need a second?”

“I…” You inhaled sharply before letting out a slow breath. “I think I need a bit of water.”

“Alright, I can get that.” Laura stood up, uneasy about leaving you but still hurrying off to fetch a drink.

You just sat there. Staring at your journal.

At one point, Laura did come back and give you water. Let you hide behind the front desk on the floor, pretending you weren't in the room when other customers would stop by and wouldn’t see you. You sat there with the journal in your hands for a while, quiet in your whirling thoughts as the need to write crawled up your skin.

Soon, you found a pencil.

June 14, 1943. 10:47 AM

I lied. Not everything is as fun as it seems when no one knows who you are. How do you tell someone — someone who thinks you're dead — that you're so glad they lived?

I saved that boy so long ago and he recognized me. That never happened before — no one remembers me.

His frost blue eyes are as vibrant as before and I think he's roughly the same age as Robert now. How amazing is that? That he got to grow up that much? And he has a sister — I think he has a couple of them. He seems like such a sweet boy, buying his sister a book just to make her happy. He looked so happy doing it too.

I overheard that the boy young man is leaving tomorrow. 

Why? Why would they let him do this? They can’t. I saved him once, but now he’s off to a place where I know I can’t reach him. 

Why would the world let me save him just to let him die young?

That girl is going to lose her brother just like how I lost mine.

This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. I just want it to end.

NEXT CHAPTER >

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