𝔱𝔬𝔱𝔰𝔲𝔬

“Alright, so did you get cracked?”

“Jesus Christ- Tyler, no! And can we stop using that word? It's so aggressive.”

You shoved a blushing face into the nearest throw pillow. Perhaps it was the thought of sex, or maybe it was the fact that the morning you and Simon had shared was much sweeter than any fantasy you could make up in your head.

It started with a missing Simon and noise from the kitchen, a perfect opportunity to get put together with no prying eyes. No makeup, loose outfit, and hair tamed as best as you could keep it. Surviving the night and not getting kicked out gave you some confidence that he would accept you in a less-than-perfect form.

The short walk from the cold hallway to the kitchen was filled with the faint crescendo of music spilling from his record player. 

This Must Be The Place by The Talking Heads

It was the perfect foil to Ghost and Simon. It was an easy song, one that felt like a nice coffee and lopsided pancakes. Or maybe that was just your sense of smell mingling with whatever minute case of synesthesia you convinced yourself you had in order to feel special.

The linoleum floors creaked as you peeked into the kitchen to see the man of the hour flipping a pancake robotically, broad pale shoulders struggling to hide under those thin tanktop straps. He didn't even need to turn to notice you.

“Morning, love. Take this and go ahead and sit.” He nudged a plain white coffee mug toward you, eyes still focused on the stove.

With gentle steps, you took the mug and peered over his shoulder. “Morning.” It was like you'd made it through the first hurdle, a night spent together. No, it wasn't intimate in the traditional sense; it wasn't cheeky touches or slow kisses. But the gentle rhythm of two hearts allowing themselves to rest in each other's presence when anyone else would cause their walls to shoot up. Just one arm wrapped around your body, the other acting as your pillow.

A plate of syruppy, slightly burnt, pancakes lay in front of you, a strong arm around your shoulders, and an early morning game show ran on the TV. 

“It was an easy morning. That's all…”

Tyler looked at you with a grin and rolled his eyes. 

“Whatever you say.”

~

It wasn't routine, though. Ghost still had a job to do. If he gave up every morning for you, then he'd allow Simon to watch more stupid breakfast tutorials and purchase more of the vanilla creamer you seemed to like so much.

This particular morning, he was solo, getting up before the sun, arriving at base with it. 

Kyle jogged up to him, barely a foot through the entrance of the cement fortress. “LT, Price needs us in 5.” He gave Ghost a small pat on the back before jogging off, most likely to rally any others.

Another Assignment

It would be his first since you. It was a relatively short operation, too. A couple of weeks up in Italy, mostly scouting for intel about some budding international scheme. Nothing he hadn't done a thousand times before. 

“Alright. Questions? Price scanned the room, lingering on Ghost for a moment longer than needed. But, as usual, he made no sudden moves, just two brown voids staring straight through the Captain. Price clapped once, a finality falling on the room. “Alright then. We move out at 0400. Dismissed.”

Ghost was the last one to leave, trailing behind Soap, who, unfortunately, caught on to the slight shift in Ghost's posture. The once looming mountain of death now seemed preoccupied by something, walking around more like a, well, Ghost rather than a grim reaper. “Hey Ghost, what's on your mind?” He nudged the man with his elbow and gave a friendly smile as they walked down the corridor. Ghost simply shook his head, eyes forward. “Heyyy cmon. You look only half dead. Been getting good rest?”

The question was simple enough, but Ghost knew what he was doing. He was trying to connect to Simon. The part of him that would reveal the small details of your nights and a few mornings spent together. HE wanted him to talk about how he'd memorised your routines, sometimes giving you extra time to get ready in the morning under the guise of ‘cleaning up the place’. How he started leaving fresh towels in your favorite color, yellow, and bought a new pillow for you, softer than his own. How hed reposition you after you were fast asleep, so your shoulder wouldn't be sore when you woke up.

But now, with assignment less than 24 hours away, he didn't need that interfering.

“I’m doing just fine.”

He glanced at Soap with a sharpness before walking ahead of him and into his own office.

9:04 A.M. - Morning, Pretty Girl. Can't pick you up tonight. Off on assignment. Short. A few weeks tops. I’ll text you when I’m back.

Ghost clenched the old, battered phone in his hands. 

Too sweet. 

9:06 A.M. - Don’t miss me too much.

He took a deep breath and set the phone face down on his desk. If he really wanted to be an asshole, he could cut off all communication. It wasn't necessary for the opp, but it would sting good. Like scratching at a fresh scar or peeling at the skin on your fingers. 

How badly would you miss him? Would you cry again? You were used to being alone, he knew that much, but would the absence of his newly established routines ruin your month? He could always give you a schedule, make you stick to it. He won't check in and give encouragement. He won't guide you or give you calls. 

Yeah, a schedule sounds nice.

A sense of control he can depend on from halfway across the world. He knows you'll either listen or you'll fail to and end up shaking in his arms from fear of rejection again.

“Fuck..” Ghost groaned and leaned back in his office chair, a creaky plastic thing found in Ikea, no doubt.

Maybe he'll turn off his phone after tonight, only after tonight. Simon still wanted to say goodbye to his girl; he couldn't deny that.

~

“What are you doing?”

“Just…wanted to be prepared for the week.”

Laid in front of you on your bed were 7 outfits. Each one was carefully curated by Simon and sent through text along with a myriad of other rules and regulations.

Your pink skirt next Tuesday. The one I saw you shove in your bag last week.

Wake up at 10, take an hour in the bathroom.

No energy drinks until I'm back. At least 4 waters a day.

Spend a maximum of 2 hours on classwork a day when you have it.

Eat as much dessert as you want.

The list was long and thorough. You felt a scoff of incredulity when you first skimmed it, but the sprinkles of care and specificity, that only one who truly noticed you could make, were found in each command. You read it over and over, each rule and expectation becoming less and less unreasonable. 

Maybe time apart would be hard. He's just trying to make sure you're comfortable.

But it's not like you wanted Tyler to know that. It felt sacred. The space between you and Simon didn't allow visitors, even through a screen or a pile of clothes.

“Right…” He shook his head and flopped on your bed, messing up your clothes to your disapproval. “So. We going to Sam’s party next week? She invited a shit ton of people. Maybe you could mingle a bit.”

You started snatching up the clothes from under him. “I don't want to mingle,” you mutter. His list didn't say anything about going out. Surely if he cared, he would put it in there, right? It's not like you'd allow yourself to be bossed around completely, though, would you? If he said no to parties, would you listen?

“CMONNNNN, I just got you back from Skull Daddy. Lets hang ouutttt.” Tyle had grown fond of the name and, by proxy, teasing you about every late night and early morning you had. It wasn't like you hated it, but a shameful part of you felt a sting of jealousy. You should want to flaunt your new relationship, and yet the thought of sharing even the smallest part of it felt like sacrilege. You were so used to feeding off scraps that now the prize was all yours, and you didn't know what to do with it, but you'd certainly grown protective of it. Despite all the lingering self-loathing and uncertainty, a part of your brain that you couldn't shut off couldn't handle the idea of anyone talking or thinking about Simon.

How pathetic. I'm not that kind of girl.

“I don't know. I just have a lot on my plate with classes and work.” You had started to hang up your outfits, in order, in your closet. 

Maybe you should go. A part of you wanted to go and test out the new line you'd rehearsed in your head: I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend, or maybe, I can't, I have a boyfriend. Is that even what you were? It felt deeper than that, yet you hadn't done nearly half of the things other couples would typically do. 

You smiled to yourself and buried your face in the clothes.

“Nope. You're coming.” Tyler stood and tossed a small plushie at you. “Next Tuesday I'm banging on your door until you come out.”

~

You checked your phone once more.

Salmon filets with asparagus and mashed potatoes…. Check!

Of course, Simon's list came with $300. Too much to take, and yet the idea of letting it sit there, Simon being disappointed with you for weeks, felt even worse.

For groceries, love. Spend the extra on whatever you want.

You sat at your desk and chowed down, watching a YouTube essay to pass your time. It was about your favorite video game character, as usual. It ran through the new lore and media releases.

“What?” You set down your fork and rewound the video, something the commentator said was unfamiliar. “When did they release that update…” Instantly, you opened another tab, and from that point, you spent the next 20 minutes looking at all the content you'd been missing.

Almost every night for the past 3 years had been spent reading fanfiction, watching video breakdowns, playthroughs, making and looking at art, and yet you'd missed 2 large updates. A world once more familiar than your physical reality felt foreign. It was an odd feeling of shame and hurt. Such allegiance pledged to a character made of pixels is now sidelined for what?

Ghost.

You closed your laptop and stared at the wall in silence. 

Was this what normal girls felt like? They didn't need a crutch like some fake warrior character. They didn't need to insert themselves into a fictional world to feel whole. Instead, they…thought about their partner? They went to parties and ate full meals?

You looked down at the clothes Ghost had picked for the day and then at the plate. 

Did normal girls have their partner plan their day? Was any of this normal?

You groaned and put your head in your hands.

When a life is lived on the outskirts of normalcy and expectation, any shift towards the mainstream feels unbelievable, and in most cases, unwanted. You'd spent so much of your life convincing yourself you wanted ‘normal’, that you wanted out of the partially self-imposed purgatory you lived through. But now it all felt different. Ghost offered something that seemed normal on paper. Boyfriend. A man holding and guiding a woman. That's what society expects, isn't it? It's what the nasty lustful part of your mind craved so badly after a lifetime of denial and shame. But your dynamic was anything but normal. Normal boyfriends don't give their partners a schedule. Not unless they were assholes, right? They don't wear masks to bed, don't feed and comfort them the way Ghost does. He was special.

Wasn't he?

“Kiss me. Fuck. Just kiss me.”

Price grabbed her thighs and hoisted them around his hips, pushing her back against the wall. His mysterious lover groaned and writhed under his grasp, her nails digging into his back. Her hands moved up towards his hair, making his boonie hat tilt to the side, the lopsided cap suiting his approachable face. Their lips locked in a fury of passion and ferocity, as if they'd never see each other again. 

But they would. 

It was just another Tuesday, and Simon needed to deliver Price the last mission’s recap.

But there was something that stopped Simon from crossing the threshold of the room, from pushing the door open and interrupting their moment, which felt straight out of some raunchy drama movie. He couldn’t help himself, peeking through the crack of the door and just watching. Watching as their bodies molded into each other, the orange light from some lamp cast a soft glow on their forms. 

He didn't blink, he didn't move, he didn't even breathe. 

Simon hadn’t watched porn in years. He couldn’t do it. Letting his desires for intimacy be satiated just made him feel more like Simon and less like Ghost. In another world, maybe he would consider it debauchery and allow himself to walk to the edge of release, then take a step back, never crossing the line. But in this life, any sort of pleasure felt too human. That's why it took all of his willpower to look away now, because Simon liked it, but Ghost didn't.

*Knock Knock* 

“Ahem.”

“Fuck, Riley-” Price nearly dropped the woman, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. They were both flushed, lips swollen from overuse. The mystery woman buried her hair into his chest with a giggle, braids cascading down from her scalp and blocking her face from view. Price looked down at her, then at Simon, an unamused frown meeting his absent gaze. “Hey, I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?” The mystery woman nodded before pecking his cheek and slipping past Ghost, not sparing him a single glance, Simon’s eyes never leaving his Captain’s.

Price stood straight, readjusted his hat, and flattened down his shirt. “Liuetenant?” His cheeks were still rosy, maybe it was from-

Embarassment

“Sorry to bother, sir. Just have the recap.”

~

“On the dot again, Riley.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Never been the type to rush home.” Price tilted his head, sizing the man up and down. Simon knew his superior would notice the minute he stopped staying late. He knew he'd notice the moment when he wouldn't spend hours in his office just looking over the same reports for the thousandth time, taking a smoke break before midnight, then disappearing in his truck just to come back at 6 am and do it all again.

“Trying to get some more sleep in me, need to keep up with the lads on the field.”

Price scoffed; he knew that wasn't true. Partly because he'd walk into work with the same bags under his eyes he'd had since recruitment, and partly because he didn't need to keep up with them, the men needed to keep up with Ghost.

Simon shrugged his coat over his shoulders and stepped past Price.

“You know, Simon,” he shuddered at the name, stopping in his tracks. His captain had only used it a handful of times, usually in those moments where it might have been their last on this Earth.

“You haven't sent many new recruits on grunt work. At least, not as much as usual. By this time, you'd usually have a group of 50 down to 4. Feelin’ generous?” His tone wasn't harsh or derogatory. No. But the message was clear. 

What are you not telling me?

Simon didn't look back at him, opting to stand there for a breath before continuing down the hallway, starting his journey.

~

You’d taken a liking to Simon’s beater truck. It was old and a little dinged up, but it was sturdy and practical. The seats were always pristine, perhaps from disuse, and it always smelled like him. You’d like to think it was that that made you like it so much, but you knew the real reason, and it scared you to death. 

When you saw that truck, when you stepped up and took your spot in the passenger's seat, it meant you were safe. A man whom you'd only just started talking to made you feel safe. Or perhaps, you felt vulnerable. With your experiences, your mind often conflates the two. Putting your guard up, never letting your peers, classmates, friends, family know the depths of your heart, thats was your response to danger. It was dangerous to let yourself be exposed because then people would just push you further away, wouldn't they?

So, maybe you felt safe, but you also felt like a deer right in a hunter’s crosshairs.

“Got your stuff?”

You nodded and tugged your backpack to your chest. Simon looked you over once before turning his gaze to the road.

~

It had only been a week, but it felt routine now.

Shoes at the door, coat on the rack, wait on the couch for whatever meal he'd whip up in a half hour. You stopped worrying about eating before your meetings, settling on eating in the middle of the night next to him. It felt better that way, almost. Like your hunger subsided until he brought out some sad attempt at supper. 

After the chicken and broccoli, he tried some spaghetti. The noodles were undercooked. Then he tried a steak and potatoes, which felt more like a brick and pebbles. After that was some cold store-bought soup, then a wilted Caesar salad, and then burnt chicken and rice. Then there was the salmon, which went about as good as you'd expect from a man who could burn rice.

It was all abhorrent, and you'd manage to muscle through every meal, your discomfort not going unnoticed despite your grand attempts to cover it. It was the thought that mattered. The fact that he would buy the ingredients, come home from whatever military work he had, and he'd make something just for you. It made you embarrassed beyond belief, the fact that someone would care so easily for you.

But tonight, you'd insert yourself into his cooking escapades, if not for your own guilt then for your taste buds.

The kitchen was about as barren as the living room. Fridge and counters pristine, no dishes in the sink, stainless steel pots and pans layed across the stove. Simon looked over his shoulder.

“Why are you in here? You're trying to watch, love? See if I’ll give you food posing?”

You laughed a bit and shook your head. “I just wanted to see if I could give you some help.” You realised instantly that your offer could be perceived negatively, like you were ungrateful for his cooking, and would rather have it your way. So you quickly placated the imagined offence with a, “Not like, your cooking is bad or anything! I just feel guilty that you're doing all of this for me and… I don't do much in return.”

Simon scoffed and put his phone down on the granite countertops, next to two grocery bags.

Does he look up recipes? That's so sweet.

“Trust me, you do quite enough, love. Now go sit back down-”

“But I really want to help,” you pleaded, clasping your hands in front of you, stepping closer to him. His shoulders tensed before falling back down as he turned to face you. “I’m a pretty decent cook. And… I think it'd be fun… to cook together.” You managed a meek smile, kicking yourself for allowing yourself to even initiate a possibly romantic interaction with him.

It's not like you're dating him. You've just hung out for the past week, eating and watching movies. He says he wants you, but your brain just can't imagine you being with someone, especially someone like him. You'd need it spelled out for you a good 50 times before you'd consider accepting it.

“...Fine, pretty girl.” His voice dropped down to that husky whisper he’d get when you knew he was tired, and it sent shivers down your spine. But your bashfulness took a backseat to your excitement, because now you were able to repay him for his kindness. Nothing could ever truly be done for you just because. You would always find a way to return the favor, and deep down, you knew why.

“Really? Cool! What are we making?” you beamed, moving next to him to peek through the bags.

~

Fuck fuck FUCK! Pull it together, Riley. Take control.

“You're uh… you're sure you don't want me to-” your hand gently swatted him away from the stove, already placing the steaks in a skillet with rosemary and butter. 

“I got it,” you smiled up at him. “You can go ahead and grab the plates. Asparagus should be done by now.”

This is not good… This is too… domestic. Feeding you before felt more like what he would do when Price was too tired to cook the boys up some slop during a mission. It was to keep you alive. To ensure your sustenance. To establish a routine. Because as long as he fed you, it meant he had some modicum of control over this whole charade.

But now it's different. Now you're standing in his kitchen, having him mash potatoes, fetch plates, and add spices to a grocery list. And what can he do about it? Having you the past week was completely new territory, and he didn't want to scare you off. Seeing you cry before because of him brought him a tinge of sick pleasure, but not because you were hurt. Rather, it was the fact that he knew he'd gotten his way. You, in the monster's arms, completely shed of any inhibitions, and looking for comfort. That night, he didn't sleep; instead, he berated himself until sunrise. 

Maybe he would do it again tonight. This whole cooking fiasco was getting out of control. Simon loved it. The simplicity of everything. How easily you moved in a room that was used to being empty and hollow, adding life to everything you touched. In his cold world of mediocrity and depravity, you seemed to operate with the sun in your palms. 

But Ghost wouldn't stand for this. 

Take control. NOW. 

“Alright, love. Enough of this,” he mumbled, taking the metal tongs out of your hand and crowding you away from the skillet. 

You didn't bother protesting. It was his house after all, and you were just a guest. Just a guest. Maybe you overstepped. 

“Oh… sorry, “ you stepped away, watching as he kept his eyes trained on the stove top, poking at the fillets. Your hands immediately clasped together and wrung in discomfort. “I can set the plates then-”

“Already done. You can go sit.” 

His tone was blunt. More blunt than usual. Had you done something wrong? This is not good. 

“Ok…” you mumbled, feeling your chest tighten and tighten with every shaky step you took back into the living room. 

Simon - 0 Ghost - 1

~

The silence was unbearable, yet your brain felt louder than ever. What had you done? Was this just how he got sometimes? Or did you do something egregious? Maybe both. 

“You don't like this movie?” he grumbled out. It snapped you out of your spiral for a moment. 

“What? No, sorry. Um…  I do like it,” you nodded. “I do. You don't have to change it.”

“Well, it just looks like you're not that interested.”

Damn.

“No, no, I am! I promise.” You finally looked up at him and waved your hands in hopes of emphasizing your sincerity. 

His gaze moved lazily from your eyes to your shoulders, then to your hands. His balaclava emphasised every intricacy of his stare, where it lingered the longest at your eyes, and then when it trailed off to your half-eaten plate. “You've been staring into space with your shoulders up to your ears, love. Not to mention this is the one edible meal we've had, and you've barely touched it. So out with it. What's wrong?”

It was blunt and hard to deflect. When it's so blatantly spelled out for you like that, you'd usually just deny and slip a mask back on of contentment or joy. But he knew better, and you knew it. It's why you were here in the first place. And yet you still couldn't let it all out. The invisible barrier of self-loathing and thoughts of being undeserving made telling the truth feel like dragging a 1000 lbs weight up a mountain. 

A sharp whistle. 

“Look at me, pretty girl. You're doing it again.” 

As your eyes snapped to his, he tilted his head forward, gaze intensifying ever so slightly. It felt like an interrogation tactic, but maybe that was just your imagination running wild. 

“You know I can pinpoint the exact second you started acting like this. I already know you're upset. So tell me why.”

Your eyebrow furrowed together in worry. His words put a type of pressure on your lungs that felt like it was confession or death. But this was something entirely new to you. This time, with Ghost, you'd have to tell him exactly how you felt. 

“... Maybe…  I just thought maybe you were mad at me,” you spoke softly. The words opened a floodgate in your heart, and all the emotions that were once bundled up burst out of your chest. You bit your lip to hide a quiver. 

“... mad.” His eyes stayed tracking your face. The way your cheeks and ears seemed to burn brighter, and how your eyes sought out some sort of approval or reassurance. “Because I told you to leave? “

You nodded and held your breath. How did it come to this? Sitting in a man's home, practically spilling your heart out on his couch. You almost couldn't believe it. This never felt like an option before; you had closed yourself off from displaying such emotion to anyone but yourself.

“I'm sorry.”

-

“It's alright… fuck”

Simon had somehow guided you to his room by the hand, setting you on the bed next to him. His arms wrapped around your body, pressing your head to his chest, his chin resting on top of it. 

“Shh shh…”

“I told you I'm dramatic. I'm sorry. I'm not even-” a choked sob cut off your words, but you tried to keep it together. “I'm not even a happy crier; usually, I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“You're happy?” his voice pitched up. Happy? All he did was apologize, and you'd burst into tears. Happiness wasn't his first assumption. He'd only ever seen people cry during life-or-death scenarios, or those grim moments when he'd have to tell a family their sons and daughters weren't coming back home. 

“Y-yeah.” Another round of sobs overtook you, and you buried your face deeper in his chest. Those stupid plain black shirts that never had a wrinkle were now soaked with your tears, your hands clutching the fabric. 

“Shh, shh, pretty girl. I got you.”

-

“You almost done in there?” 

“Yeah! One second.”

You took a tenth look at yourself in the mirror. The pajamas you chose were an oversized and worn band tee, some long cotton shorts, and mismatched socks. It would hide all the rolls, the blemishes, the imperfections. You'd shaved specifically for this night. Why would a man want a hairy woman? Scratch that, why would he want a Sasquatch? But despite the smoothness of your legs giving some sort of relief, a looming sense of dread permeated the bathroom. If you show up like this now, you'd have to show up like this for the rest of your relationship. He'd be expecting it, wouldn't he? 

You tugged the hem of the shirt down and looked at your face. You had taken a shower already, despite taking one that morning, so your skin had been bare all day. You didn't need to do anything else, right? Right. 

It's the first time you’re sleeping over, so don't go overboard. He says he wants you, so just be you. Just be you.

“Cmon, love. It's getting late.”

You steadied yourself, pushing up your glasses and opening the door. 

“Trying to create a sauna in there?” Ghost chuckled dryly, his eyes following the clouds of steam that fell out of the bathroom. But you couldn't focus on that, no. Your eyes were glued to him. 

He lay back on his bed, arms behind his head, gray tank top stretched so much that one wrong move, and you swear he'd burst through it. His gray flannel bottoms sat loosely around his hips, accentuating his impossibly toned waist. 

There's no way his waist is smaller than mine. 

Everything you saw, you'd felt before. The abs, the pecs, the biceps. His body had been pressed to yours twice now, yet you still felt shock at his appearance. It was the first real taste of what you had put yourself up against. A man chiseled from marble beckons you to sleep next to him in his own bed. This is bad, to be some sort of sick joke. In what universe could a girl like you-

Another whistle. 

“Eyes are up here, love.”

You instantly shut your mouth that had been agape for who knows how long and straightened your posture. 

“Sorry.”

You shuffled to the empty side of the bed and sat down as lightly as possible. If the bed creaked under your weight, you'd surely find the nearest window and jump out. But thankfully, you were safe from that fate. 

“Lie down.”

The pillows felt stiff and almost unused, as if they'd been freshly ripped open from the package with no fluffing. They simply smelled like dryer sheets. 

“You gonna relax or lie there all night like a wooden plank?”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, keeping your eyes on the ceiling and hesitantly pulling the comforter up to your chin. You weren't even cold; in fact, you were burning up. Maybe it was the mismatched socks that covered your feet, maybe it was the pure embarrassment of the whole situation. But at least it was a way of hiding that you were thankful for, at least you had some sort of shield to block his view of you. 

“Stop saying that,” he commanded before reaching over your form to click off the lamp. His chest practically grazed your nose; his scent of plain soap from an earlier shower and faint spice overwhelmed your senses. When he lay back, his gaze burned into your profile. For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat as your eyes continued staring up at the darkness, silently wishing he'd just turn the other way. But he didn't, and the silence was broken with a soft laugh. “You always sleep like a vampire?”

Your head snapped to face him, shaking your head vigorously. There was no winning, was there? You'd look like a fool anyway you present yourself.

“No. I'm just… I'm comfortable like this.”

“Comfortable,” he scoffed.

“Yeah?”

He continued staring into your eyes, head propped up on one arm, before swinging it over your waist and pulling you toward his chest. 

The only big girl in the room. 

Again. 

Lovely.

“Wow. Everyone's back here, huh?” your manager teased before entering her office. You managed to get your lunch break on time, which meant some of your other coworkers were sitting around in the breakroom too. Some gossiping, some just playing on their phones. No one was actually eating.

Your lunch break would be dreadful. You hadn’t eaten much the past few days, so you decided to bring lunch for the first time in eons. Just a simple sandwich and a granola bar. But it felt like you might as well have brought a double cheeseburger and a vat of ice cream. 

How uncomfortable it would feel to be the only big girl AND the only person eating.

You opened your locker and stared at your small brown lunchbag. 

… Never mind.

~

“Are you gonna just stand there?” 

You took a sharp inhale and followed Simon into the depths of his home. The hallway was cold and dark, but not for a lack of light. Rather, the bright white downlighting just made all the shadows more prominent and intimidating. That's when you got a better look at the man named Ghost. The width of his back filled out his grey cotton t-shirt, every muscle on display. They all traced down to a slim waist, like a triangle, accentuating his strong thighs that filled out his black combat pants. His arms weren’t covered in ink as you'd imagine; instead, they were littered with small pale pink scars, some long and deep, some small and barely noticeable. Each tendon and muscle flexed in his forearms as his hands clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched.

“Blankets are under that table. Make yourself comfortable.”

You looked away from his form and saw the entrance to a rather barren living space. A dusty flatscreen sat across from the stiffest looking couch you'd ever seen. A gray coffee table sat in the middle atop a dark shag rug, a nice change from the cold black linoleum that flooded the rest of the home. A singular lamp sat in the corner, a record player perched in the center of a stand right next to it. You found yourself drawn to the device. It hadn't looked used, like most everything else you've seen. The stand itself held a nice chunk of records, some dirty and worn like they'd been played for generations, some new in their crisp plastic casing.

Eagles, The Cure, Deftones, Fleetwood Mac, The Flamingos, George Michael? 

You cracked a smile and went to pull out the vinyl.

“Hungry?” 

Your hand dropped, and you spun to see him in the open doorway. The question made you tense. He’d texted you to eat before, but you couldn't. Your nerves made food about as appetizing as Pepto Bismol, so you stuck with some water. But he didn't know that, so why was he asking?

Great, he already thinks I eat all the time. Look at me, I must be hungry. How else do you get so big…

Simon gave a sharp whistle, directing your attention back up to him. His eyes drifted to your arms that had started encircling your stomach. “You want something cold or hot?”

“What?” Your cheeks went warm at the assumption. “Oh, no, I’m okay. I already ate, so I'm not very hungry. But thank you! For.. the offer,” you gave a wry smile that he inspected for a moment before disappearing into the shadows again.

Your smile dropped instantly, and you went to sit on the couch, thighs pressed close together. The cushions felt like bricks, but they gave you some relief. It meant you wouldn’t feel the dreaded dip in the couch that signified you weighed anything. You looked at the room again, your head on a swivel. A couple of windows, a clock. Did he get all of this from the same Ikea showroom? You noticed a few framed photos of him standing proud at attention. You wanted to get up and take a closer look, but you were afraid of him catching you red-handed again.

“Here, love. Nothing much, just some sustenance.” You jumped slightly at the voice. For being such a hulking mass of a man, he didn't make a sound when he moved. In front of you, he placed a plate with some pale chicken and steaming broccoli. 

Great. Just great. He wants you to lose weight already. Wow. Wait… he's being nice. He's bringing you food; this is probably the shit he eats. Be grateful.

You managed another smile and clasped your hands over your chest. “Oh, you didn't have to! I told you, I've already eaten. You didn't have to bring me anything!” Your rambles were cut short by his unamused stare. He was wearing the same black balaclava from the night before, making his brown eyes even more judgmental, especially when you knew they were focused on your every movement, deciphering every bit of you. 

He sank onto the couch beside you, legs spreading, thighs inches away from yours. He leaned back, stretching an arm across the back cushion behind you. “Eat.”

Your smile wavered, and you looked back down at the plate. “O-…ok… But I feel bad if I’m the only one eating-”

“Already ate before I clocked out, love.”

Love

You shivered at the name, at the way it rolled off in that deep, gritty British lilt.

Glancing up again, you realized he hadn't stopped watching you. He was waiting for you to take a bite, and you didn't want to find out what would happen if you tested his patience. So, you picked up the fork and knife, taking a small piece of chicken to your mouth. 

Wow… this is bland as hell.

His thumb went to your shoulder to rub small circles. “Good girl.” You looked back up and gave a smile that you hoped covered the pain from the dry chicken scraping down your throat and the utter embarrassment from his touch and words.

He exhaled from his nose before turning his attention to the TV, his free hand controlling the remote and clicking it to life. “Whaddya like to watch, love?” His thumb on your shoulder turned to his whole hand rubbing up and down your upper arm in strong, slow strokes, causing your brain to short-circuit and forget every movie you'd ever seen.

“Um, anything really. I'm not too picky. Just not a huge fan of action, I suppose. But I'm ok with anything!”

“Anything, huh? Right,” he mumbled, clicking through a multitude of channels from whatever barebones cable service he forgot to cancel.

Is this what we're gonna do? Sit and watch movies? Are we not gonna talk about last night? About the massive fucking elephant in the room?

“I can see you not eating,” he warned, causing your shoulders to tense before you took a brave bite of his broccoli.

Damn, not even salt?

He stopped at a channel in the middle of playing some TCM classic, a Technicolor dance sequence in full swing. “You like classics?”

“Yeah! I've seen a few, used to watch them with my grandma.” A part of you found the sight endearing, a big, scary man named Ghost fully focused on a bright and peppy jazz routine.

“What’re you smilin’ at?” he grumbled slightly, not even needing to look at you to notice your grin. It made him sick, the way he could feel you even when he was in the other room. Like he was tuned in directly to your frequency. And with your proximity, you wouldn’t be able to hide a thing from him.

You gave a small laugh before poking around at your food. “Nothing. Just didn't think you’d enjoy these movies, is all.”

“Mmm…” he gave some indecipherable grunt before looking down at your plate, then at you. “Don't like your food, love?” 

“No! No, it's good. Really good, thank you!” You gave yet another overcompensating smile that he once again inspected. But this time, instead of leaving it, he picked up your plate and got up to go back to what you assumed was the kitchen. “Wait! No, really! I think it was good! I’ll eat it! I promise.” Your hands waved in desperation, hoping you hadn't just offended the man by a poorly disguised lack of appetite for his cooking.

“I know you would,” he mumbled as he disappeared back out of the room.

“Great... Great. He's probably upset,” you whispered to yourself, arms clenching over your stomach again. It made you acutely aware of the way your stomach rolled over your waistband, the way you had spent 30 minutes picking out a shirt you hoped would disguise all your little flaws. But it was no use. You felt like an imposter even in your own clothes. Even if you did your hair and put on a glowy blush, any beauty you held was ripped from you, thrown into the street, and run over, self-doubt in the driver's seat.

“Here. Should be better.” A small pint of mint chocolate ice cream replaced the spot the plate held, a small spoon next to it. He sank back into his spot next to you, hand taking its rightful place on your arm once more.

Oh, now this is just perfect. He REALLY thinks I'm a fatass.

“You-you really didn't have to. I feel bad eating your food, Ghost…” Sincerity broke through your voice. Your confidence wavered as his hand squeezed your arm just a bit tighter at the mention of his name. 

The name Johnny had given you: Ghost… Not Simon. Not Riley. Ghost. The name people screamed before fleeing a drug bust. The name people breathed out with their dying breath before a bullet pierced their skull. The bad name. The monster. And it sounded so good coming from your lips.

“Just... eat, love,” he exhaled with a shaky breath, before fixating his eyes back onto the TV.

~

About half an hour passed in silence, and a third of the ice cream had been eaten before you closed the lid. You hadn’t moved into his touch, hadn’t scooted a bit closer. Nothing. In fact, your back stayed perfectly straight, thighs tense from pressing them together for so long, hands clasped in your lap.

Enough.

Simon pulled you to his side, using his free hand to pull your thighs up against his.

“Relax,” he whispered against your hair before rubbing up and down your arm again. You gave a weak nod before relenting and allowing your head to fall onto his shoulder. His scent was overwhelming. Something warm like tobacco and sharp like smoke. And God, to him, you smelled divine. It was the same scent he'd killed himself over imagining for weeks. Espresso, frosting, maybe some coconut? To be this close again, being able to inhale every last breath of you, made his brain go fuzzy. He had to keep himself from enveloping you completely and burning his face into your neck so he could take every bit of your essence for himself.

After a bit longer of torture, the movie neared its end, and he felt you shift. “Don’t move, pretty girl. I want you right here.” He heard you make a small noise, like you were contemplating speaking. He looked down to see your face scrunched in thought, shoulders tensing once more.

“Ghost?”

God, stop saying that.

“Yeah?”

“What…what is,,, happening? I mean, after last night I… I just… I need to know what this all is.”

It was his turn to tense. He pressed you into his side a bit more before taking a finger and guiding your chin upwards to face him. “I want you. And I know you want me. So I brought you to my home to feed you, hold you, and watch a movie. Anything else unclear?”

Your pupils dilated, and you shook your head, breathless. “No…”

“Good. We’ll be doing this every night then, as long as I’m not deployed.”

Your eyes widened, and you looked back down. “Every night? I’m not sure if I can do that. That’s a big change, and I have work, then coursework for college, and I-”

“Then you can do it here. You can bring your laptop or use mine. I’ll feed you too… I'll learn how to cook something to your liking, though.” Your gaze darted back up to his, and judging by the small crinkle of his eye, you’d imagined he cracked a small smile.

“Are you.. Serious?”

“I’ve never not been, love.” His voice dropped to that firm final tone he'd use to give you commands. It was the same voice he used while giving mission plans and directives over comms to his men.

“I just mean, this is all really sudden. And I really don't want to become an extra responsibility for you or anything. This is also all just… really new for me,” you admitted with a worried tone. You were afraid that if you revealed too much insecurity, you'd scare him off completely, but you couldn't help it. You hated that part of yourself. The part that would deem you undeserving of vulnerability yet force the words out regardless.

“New for me too.” His voice softened before he loosened his grip on you. “Except for the responsibility part. Pretty used to taking care of folks. Price is better at it, though.”

“Price… He's the one with the mustache?” you asked, looking back up at him.

He gave a chuckle, nodding. “Yeah. My captain. I'm his lieutenant. Aka the boss of the two other twats you've seen me with.” This made you laugh. A genuine laugh, one with some believability, where he could see your smile lines and the imperfect angle of your teeth. “You like laughing at me, pretty girl?” he teased.

You quickly shook your head with a smile. “No, I just like how you said that.”

“Said what?”

You tried to imitate his words with a pseudo-British accent. It didn't sound a thing like him, but it made you laugh again all the same, which made him grin just a bit more than before. “So you like my accent, love?”

“I just like your voice,” you admitted too quickly, shame flooding your system in an instant.

“Yeah? Good. I like your voice, too.” he leaned slightly closer. The title card to the next movie casted pinks and yellows across his mask, making his eyes sparkle.

You swallowed hard, shame making way for swarms of butterflies in your stomach. “Thank you.”

Oh, how he could eat you up at this moment. The way the colors made your cheeks look comically rosy, how perfectly you’d fit in his arm. But he couldn’t. He couldn't indulge himself too much at once. He'd take his time with you. Have his cake and eat it too. Giving you enough so he could indulge in his silly fantasies and late-night self-loathing, and holding back just enough so he wouldn't seal your coffin or send you running.

“You don't get it!” you sobbed, whipping your head up from your pillow. “He called me a pretty girl!”

“Then make me understand! Why are you so upset?” Tyler sat next to you, putting an arm around your shoulders. You melted slightly and wiped your eyes. A familiar feeling of hopelessness and inadequacy seeping into your bones.

“You... you know what I look like. He knows what I look like. And this whole thing, the staring at me, the ignoring me, the way he gave little bits of attention like he knew I was desperate… He knew what he was doing. He knew how much those words would mean to me. And he's using them to fuck with me, because he knows neither of us believes that I'm beautiful.”

~

“LT? Y’alright?”

Simon blinked and refocused on his tray, shoving around some unseasoned chicken breast. “Yeah.”

“You know,” Johnny started, leaning forward over the table, voice lowered to a whisper. “You've been acting a little off… since that night.” Simon's eyes darted up to meet his. “I didn't wanna bring it up, but cmon. What happened?”

Simon grunted and leaned back, crossing his arms. “None of your business.”

Johnny frowned and leaned back as well, running a hand through his mohawk in frustration. “Just..” he looked away for a moment, licking his lips in thought, then settling to stare at an empty spot on the table. “I saw what you did… Lass looked proper spooked.” He chuckled a bit, “I’d never seen you like that before, honestly.” When Simon didn't respond, he pushed further. “What… what did you say to her?...”

Simon's thoughts went back to that night. The whole interaction replayed in his mind, the way you looked, how he was so easily able to control you. And the way he went home, how he’d forced himself to think about it over and over. 

Monster. Monster. Monster.

“LT?”

“Nothing. Just told her happy birthday.”

~

Simon had let himself indulge in his own self-loathing for a few more weeks, oblivious to the way he'd destroyed you completely. How he made himself the final straw. You cried all night, then the next night. You whispered into your pillows pleas to the universe for mercy. It was something so trivial, so self-imposed that you felt as if your plight would never end. Why did you have to feel so much for something so… 

It wasn't like you were in a war; it wasn't like you were struggling for anything. By any account, you were just going through the motions. So why did it feel like you were dying when a stranger told you two words? Two words crafted and strung together just to taunt you, to make you falter and break. The worst part is that you felt like you allowed it; maybe you did. It felt like other people would just brush it off or be mildly upset and go about their day. But for you, it was confirmation of your worst fears, of your darkest thoughts.

You wouldn't ever truly be appreciated. You wouldn't really be loved. The closest thing you'd ever get was the equivalent of a human dangling a bone in front of a dog. Your emotions were a plaything to people like Ghost because they knew you were desperate. They knew you wouldn't have many other opportunities, so you should be grateful for the shred of attention they gave you in the first place.

You felt humiliated, even more so when you realised you wanted more. 

Your weeks went by in a blur. School, work, apartment. School, work, apartment. Tyler had managed to bring you to some outings where you put on your best smile, but would leave at the first chance you got. The only thing keeping you from another period of rotting was the fact that if you did, if you isolated yourself from the world completely, it meant you truly were the most desperate creature on the planet. That you were really a dog.

~

“Oi, pretty girl.”

Your blood went cold, the words instantly grabbing you by the collar and pulling you into reality for the first time in weeks. It had to be him. You stopped pushing your cart, hands gripping the handles so hard your knuckles turned white. 

“I know you heard me. What did I say about looking at me when I’m talking to you?” His voice was right on your neck now. You shuddered and steeled your nerves, turning around.

He was wearing a black balacalva this time, making it much harder to decipher his motives or what he was thinking. But your emotions played across your face like a movie. Your wide eyes, worried brow, and frown. He could tell you'd been unwell by the circles under your eyes, by the friziness of your unkempt hair.

“Good…” his arms were crossed, some energy drink held in one hand. He tilted his head, looking down at you with that intense stare that made you want to evaporate where you stood.

“Do… do you want something?” You braced for impact, hands clenching and unclenching at your sides.

“Just wanted to see you. See if you remembered me, is all.”

You wanted to punch him square in that strong jaw of his. He knew you'd remember. Your eyes narrowed, and you took a small step backward, hurt coloring your expression.

“Easy there. Why so upset?” his voice wasn't condescending, no. It was smooth and even, like a predator circling its prey, waiting to strike. It made you want to cry. This isn't what you'd wished for night after night. This isn't the attention you wanted. This was the type that made you feel like you were being plunged in and out of an ice bath by your neck.

“Will you just… stop?” Your voice came out weak and broken. You felt like a fool, more than ever. 

Be grateful.

“Stop? Stop what?” he took a step forward, backing you into the cart. One strong arm grabbing the handle behind you, reminding you of that stunt he pulled on your birthday again. You tried to make yourself small, your size feeling more apparent than ever.

“You know…” You crackled. “You KNOW.” 

“Do I look like a bloody mindreader, love?” Another arm went to the other side of you, grabbing the same handle, boxing you in his presence completely. Your back stung from bending backwards on the metal bar just to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.

“No… just…” You looked around frantically to make sure no one else was in sight, that no one else could see this odd humiliation ritual. “Why are you doing this to me? Why do you.. Keep calling me that…” The words felt too vulnerable; you weren't planning on saying them in the first place. Maybe you'd hate yourself for asking later, but for now, you just wanted an answer.

Simon’s eyes widened a second before he leaned fully over you, only a foot of dead air separating your bodies. “Pretty girl?”

You shuddered and gave a pitiful nod.

“Why do you think?”

“I don't know…” You looked down, picking your nails out of stress, microanalyzing every speck of dust and lint on your ratty t-shirt.

A sharp whistle stung your eardrums, and you looked back up.

A DOG.

“I just… You know you're doing it to hurt me…” You whispered, feeling your eyes sting with tears and your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

His fists gripped the cart a bit tighter as he stared at you, expression unchanging, from what you could tell, at least. “Why do you say that?” he exhaled in what seemed like restraint. Like he was holding himself back from pouncing, baring his bare teeth and snapping your neck. 

“Because…” your voice became watery. “You know it's not true…” It was painful, to cry like this. In public, in front of, basically, a stranger. It was the worst feeling, and your body felt like collapsing from the stress. 

Simon looked over your shoulder and into your cart. Just some energy drinks and bread so far. He looked back at you and grabbed your wrist. “You’re coming with me,” he commanded. You couldn't even protest, too busy wiping your eyes so any passersby wouldn't notice your state of distraught. He led you out of the supermarket and into the cold night air. A giant black two-seater truck came into view. “Get in.”

Would you be killed? Chopped up by some psycho military guy who gets his kicks preying on vulnerable women? You didn't know. You usually thought these things through, would run every possible scenario through your brain, and plan for the worst. But you couldn't care now. Your thoughts were cloudy, and everything felt loud. But his words were clear through the storm of chaos.

The seats were cold black leather, a grounding feeling. As he shut his own door, you felt the tears come again, looking straight at your feet, hands wringing in anticipation for the great breakdown. A moment passed before you felt Simon’s warm hand cradle your head and bring it to his chest. You gasped and looked up, but he just pushed your head back down, his other arm wrapping tight against your shoulders. “No one will see you cry but me now, understood?”

The reality of that statement was far from your comprehension at that point. The weight of his words not yet hitting you, but the permission to let go was clear. So, you cried. You cried like you had countless nights before. You cried like you did when no one was watching, when the house was empty, and all that was left were your own thoughts. You cried like you did when you were 6, then 10, then 15, then 21.

His grip was almost painful, but the pressure was cathartic, and he didn't let up once. He didn't pull away; he barely even moved. Your ear on his chest let you hear the steady rhythm of his heart. And eventually your tears turned into sparse shuddering breaths. You found yourself pushing up against him more, seeking his stability and warmth.

“Why me?...” You let the question sit; not enough energy to doubt your words. You'd questioned the universe, questioned God the same way.

You felt him take a deep breath, and in a voice too soft to be a lie, he said, “Because… I knew from the moment I saw you… We were exactly the same. I know you'll understand the parts of me that I try to kill and the parts of me that do the killing.”

You subconsciously nuzzled into his chest, closing your eyes tight. “Will you ignore me again?”

His grip tightened, and his voice grew darker once more. “No. Not again, pretty girl.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don't.” He leaned his head down so his nose nuzzled your hair through the cotton of his mask. You could hear him take a shaky inhale before his lips moved down to your ear.

“I’m gonna fix you, okay? And you're gonna fix me.”

~

You didn't even register that you'd driven home, that you'd entered your apartment, or changed into your pajamas. Nothing was registering at all; it's like your brain had shut down. But it didn't feel bad. Rather, it felt like some part of you shifted. The mechanical machinery of your body was altered. Like anew goc shoved its way in, and you were being forced to adapt. But for tonight, you'd let it be. You'd space out and lie in your cold bed, pressing one ear to your mattress, and pushing a pillow against your other.

(xxx)-(xxx)-(xxxx)

I’ll get you at 7:30. Send me your address.

~

You stepped into the threshold of his home, and it was cold. Sterile. No lights were on. No sign of life. It left a chill down your spine. 

You looked up at him, and he nodded, pressing a hand to your back to move you forward. “Take off my shoes here?” He nodded again. You took another breath before setting your sneakers on the rack next ot his boots and pulling your coat around you tighter. It was protection. From the cold, from him, from yourself. But he didn't care, grabbing the shoulders of your jacket and peeling it down your arms. 

“I've got blankets in the living room,” he mumbled, putting the jacket on the rack next to his before starting down the hallway.

You had spent most of your childhood like this. Judging.

Since you entered school, you became acutely aware of what it felt like to be judged and how to judge others. It was a nasty thing to do, and you knew it.

Everyone was on a sort of fluctuating totem pole. At the top were those people who just seemed to draw everyone in. The people who seemingly didn’t need to try, and everyone would clamor over themselves to get a sliver of their attention. Usually beautiful, but with some exceptions. It was those people who really made you question what you were doing wrong. What a cruel thought. Girls always had to try harder, though, a product of patriarchy and survival. 

At the bottom were the people you didn’t even remember. The people that you could pass by every day and not recognise them in a checkout line. They just existed. You aligned yourself with them. The people who just moved through life, no matter how great their plights, they would always be ignored. They were background characters, filler. But yet they still existed.

Like a ghost.

~

“Lliuetenant Riley. Good work out there. Drinks? It’ll be on me.” Price’s voice boomed over the helicopter blades.

Simon shook his head, eyes focused on the entrance to the base. 

“The boys are comin'. ‘M sure you need to loosen up a bit.” Price pushed as he kept up with his subordinates' pace. There was no running from Price. “It’s been a while. A month, almost? Already told Johnny no funny business.” 

Simon groaned internally. He knew Price wouldn't let up. 

“... When?”

~

Simon went through the same routine as always. Check all the rooms, cameras, and alarms. Grab a small snack, maybe ice cream. Shower. Bed.

The small gift price had gotten him, still lay untouched on his bedside table. He couldn’t open it. He left it there to taunt him with the memories of that night. How Johnny had set him up. How your smile faltered. How you got so scared. Not opening the gift was an act of torture, something close to self-harm in the way he allowed it to hurt. If he opened it, it'd all be resolved. No more replaying the events of that night, allowing his actions to fester, reminding him of the distance he put between you. They'd be erased over by whatever was in that box.

Simon doesn't do relationships when he barely allows himself to want. He abuses his own arousal and desire as a form of punishment, burying any feelings deeper and deeper and slamming the door on them. It was the fleeting moments when he saw a beautiful woman or saw some sappy couple in public, where his heart raced, that tied him to being human. To being Simon. If he could be Ghost forever, he would. It was easier. But he couldn’t be, and that frustrated him more than anything. 

That's why he let his thoughts drift to you. At first, he thought it was pathetic. He’d only seen you three times; you were nothing more than a stranger. And that cruel part of himself beat him over the head with criticism, with self-loathing. 

You’re letting some civilian run through your mind. You're getting weak.

But after nights where a run or a freezing shower couldn't erase your image from his mind, he chose the path most painful. He'd let you run through his mind. He'd let your small interactions, your scent, voice, form, anything he could remember, corrupt his thoughts because it meant he could let the devil on his shoulder speak. 

You're a fuck up. A monster. You can't maintain a friendship, so what gives you the right to want? To love?

And God, it hurt. It was things he'd told himself before, to make Ghost. But you made it feel more real.

Simon wouldn’t use a blade to mark across his arms, wouldn’t puncture his skin with ink and needles, wouldn't pull out his hair or peel back his scars. He’d just think of you.

~

“You look so good! C’mon. I'll drive you since it's your special day~” Tyler chimed as he hooked his arm around yours and dragged you out the door. You'd stressed over and over that he didn't need to plan anything, but the way you'd been held up in your room for weeks called for forced socialisation. 

You tried today. It was your birthday, so you’d given yourself a break. A simple blush and lipliner combo, some nice jeans, and a sweater. You’d already taken off the concealer that hid your dark circles and blemishes; it looked cakey. The whole process felt like putting lipstick on a pig, but you tried and tried to push the thought away. Besides, it was the big 21, that's something to celebrate! You’d sworn off drinking for eternity, but you would allow yourself to try, just for today. Today you’d go out, try not to care too much, maybe get plastered for the first time, and worry about everything tomorrow. 

~

The not caring part lasted for all of five seconds. When your friends had ushered you through the doors of the familiar bar, now excited that they could all go in on a Saturday without you feeling left out, you just wanted a nice night. You wanted to allow yourself to be a woman, to be young, to not think about your every move, and just let yourself exist. But it was very hard to do that when every time you tried, that shadow loomed over you. 

~

He didn't know if he wanted to kiss Price or kill him. You were here. What a coincidence. A perfect coincidence. But Price couldn't have known; there's no way. He smelled you first, then he saw the back of your head and a stupidly modest sweater. The color was nice, though, a deep burgundy. He was sure you'd seen him too. He liked to hide in the shadows, but he knew you were observant, knew you took inventory of the room, waiting and anticipating. Just like him.

He could be mad. Kick himself for letting the small human part of him indulge in your presence. But he could also use this as another round of torture. Let himself watch you, then force himself to pull away. Desire was like a rabid dog on the leash, and he enjoyed pulling it back from the collar.

The three men at the table all exchanged a pleasant nod of acknowledgment to you and Tyler, to which you gave a wide smile and frantic wave before going to your booth. It was adorable how hard you tried, how caught off guard you were. How excited you were to be remembered. The men all exchanged glances. Something unreadable that Simon couldn’t decipher, but he knew they were talking about him in their own fucked up way.

“‘M getting another drink,” Simon grumbled before heading to the bar.

~

“One of whatever you got that’ll make a first-time drinker happy.” Tyler beamed at the bartender. He tapped his fingers on the counter and rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited. He noticed the way you tensed when you saw him. When you saw Ghost. He'd just gotten you out of the house, too, but tonight he'd do whatever it took to distract you from the giant shadowy- 

“Whiskey. Neat.” Simon grumbled, holding up two fingers.

He could kill him. If Johnny had been telling the truth about how this man felt, then why had he been such a dick to you? You’d finally told him about that night and the supermarket. How he ignored you completely. It made Tyler's blood boil.

“Hey.”

Simon looked up slowly with an icy gaze.

Tyler crossed his arms. “Ghost, right?”

Simon exhaled a bit in irritation, eyes going back to the bottles of liquor behind the bar. “Yeah.”

Tyler gave him the once over, cataloguing every aspect of his appearance, demeanor, attitude.

This guy blows.

“You’re not very social, are you? Or are you just an asshole?”

Simon scoffed, almost like a chuckle. “Both.”

Tyler couldn’t bear to be in his presence any longer. With a twitch of his nose, he grabbed the giant glass the bartender had concocted up for you, a Long Island iced tea, and promptly moved back to your booth. “BIRTHDAY DRINKS FOR THE BIRTHDAY GIRRLLL! WHOOP WHOOP!”

~

God, it's her fucking birthday?

A depraved part of him relished the thought. At the fact that he knew he was occupying your mind when it should be a day of letting go for you. He knew it in the way you’d reacted to his proximity. The way your eyes couldn't help but dart over to his form, then back to whatever stupid card your friend brought you. To how you clammed up, lifting your thighs off the chair so they wouldn't spread. To the way you bit your nails and fussed with your hair every five seconds. 

Maybe this was your normal, but he's sure he was just making things worse. A girl who doesn't want to be perceived being watched like a hawk.

I'm such a sick bastard.

He would make a move tonight. Nothing too crazy, just enough to lead you along, rather, to give him more ammunition. If he saw how you'd react to him, he wouldn't be able to help himself. He could stay awake for hours, ripping to shreds the image of Simon in his mind for doing this to you.

So, after an hour or two of observing you, how you swayed slightly now, giggling a little more at everything, he decided it was time. You’d had enough fun. The men had given up on trying to talk to him. With Price’s scolding and Simon’s previous warning, Johnny hadn’t tried anything either.

He took a breath and readjusted his mask before peeling from the wall. He caught your gaze and beckoned you over with two fingers before heading to the bar.

~

This has gotta be some joke. Some elaborate prank the universe has put on you to push an already suffering woman to the edge. He was gonna tell you off, wasn't he? He was going to question why you kept looking at him, why you thought you had the right. 

Was that even for me?... It has to, there's no way it wasn’t… It probably wasn't. What the fuck!

Your giggles had stopped instantly, a pit of dread flooding your system. As you watched him stand there, mumbling something to the bartender. He looked over his shoulder for a second and nodded his head to gesture you over.

You pointed a finger at your face with an expression that made it look like you were being sacrificed. He nodded and pointed a finger towards you before turning back around.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was that carnal desire to be wanted that had you get up and follow his command like a dog. If you were going to be the fool, be ridiculed, and taunted, at least you can say you were brave enough to face him. You’d never been the type before.

You stood a good foot away from him, shoulders to your ears, and eyebrows furrowed together. You focused on a dent in the glossy countertop, although your concentration was interrupted when a small glass slid its way into view.

“Drink it. It’s better than the shite your friend got you.”

His voice was unlike anything you expected. Deep, sad, gravely, and… British? You couldn't bother to unpack that last part. You didn't care, at least, not when this was the first real sentence he'd spoken to you that he made just for you. Not some stupid filler at a supermarket. Not some insult or scolding. 

You took the glass with a shaky palm, now aware of his gaze. This wasn't your preferred angle; you always thought it'd make your chin look bigger, your lips crooked.

“Drink.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled before taking a small swig.

“Good girl.”

Your eyes instantly widened, and your face contracted from the bitter taste of the drink, then the instant embarrassment. You felt pathetic. A simple bit of praise made you stop functioning; it made your brain blackout and your vision go fuzzy. 

You heard a deep chuckle, then a swig of his own. “Never had whiskey before?”

Yeah. That was it. Let's say that's why you almost choked over a simple taste.

You nodded and stole a glance at him, cheeks burning with shame. “This is my second drink… ever.”

His eyes widened for just a second before going back to their sharp gaze. You hadn’t noticed the way his pupils dilated at the fact. At the fact that he'd given you your first taste of whiskey. That was his now. His claim in your mind.

“Really now…” He turned back to the bar and took a long sip, moving his mask up to drink.

“Yeah. My friends brought me here for my birthday, so I wanted to try drinking for the first time.”

Why are you telling him this? He doesn't care. He's probably just being nice in his own way because he pities you. Because maybe being mean to the ugly girl left a bad taste in his mouth, so he'll just buy you a drink this one time and never talk to you again.

“You like it?” 

You looked up at him, now. It took a moment for his question to really register, but you gave a sort of shrug and wry smile. “I don't really know…”

“Keep drinking that,” he nudged the drink with his knuckle before taking a seat at the barstool and raising an expectant eyebrow at you. 

Does he want me to stay? Is that my cue to go-

“Sit.” 

You nodded and instantly sat, now even more on edge. There's no way he couldn't notice. The way your shoulders probably ached from the tension, the overcorrected posture, your thighs, stomach, and worried eyebrows. Despite all your efforts, all the practice it took for you to be able to disguise your insecurities after a lifetime of self-imposed shame, there's just no way he couldn't see it. 

You took another sip, slightly longer this time.

This tastes like shit.

You coughed a bit at the fire that was now burning down your throat and into your stomach.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I dunno if I will,” you laughed a bit, then instantly cleared your throat, cringing at yourself.

“...Got a boyfriend?” 

Your hair stood on end, and you swigged down another gulp in an attempt to compose yourself.

“N-no.”

“Good,” he mumbled darkly, his voice pitching lower than before. He shifted to face you a bit, leaning forward, eyes locked to yours. “Finish your drink.”

~

He’d seen men on the other side of his gun show less fear than you this moment. Men whose lives were signed away the second his name was even mentioned, one sure bullet way from them meeting their maker. 

And he liked it.

He liked how you looked at him, hands shaking as you gulped down the last bit of whiskey, eyes squeezing tight, and nose scrunching in disgust. But you didn't open your eyes, instead opting to turn back to face the bar and cover your face.

“Wow, does this drink usually make you hot-” you said as you tried to sew together some shaky excuse for your embarrassment.

He grabbed the back of your chair and pushed it so you'd face him. 

You monster.

The ease with which he could just move you around made your head feel dizzier than before. You truly felt trapped now. One arm blocking you in from any sort of escape. This was overwhelming. This was Hell, made by you with his sharp brown eyes at the gate.

“Look at me,” he commanded, to which you shrank again, like you wilted under his stare. But when your eyes finally did peel open, he couldn't help the small smirk that was hidden under his mask.

“When I’m talking to you, I wanna look at your eyes, understood?”

Watch it, Riley. You told yourself this would only go so far. Don’t push it.

“Okay…” you breathed out, trying to meet his gaze.

“Oh yeah, for sure we can just be friends,” you nodded with a smile that didn't quite meet your eyes.

“You’re cool with that?”

“Oh yeah, for sure.”

“Chill”

“Yeah… chill.”

You’d talked on Instagram for weeks. Gotten closer and closer behind the screen, sharing secrets and making inside jokes, but the second he saw you, you knew it was coming. 

It gets easier to lie to them each time it happens.

~

Back at the Restaurant…

Johnny disregarded Simon’s outward lies. “Say, what's it about that lass that's got yer eye?” He kept pressing on because he knew Price and Gaz couldn't hear. They were engrossed in some conversation about fishing by Price’s lakehouse. “Not exactly what I’d picture you going for.”

“Johnny. I said it wasn't them. In fact, there's no one. Eat your steak,” Simon asserted, patience wearing thin, eyes still trained on his plate.

“Fine. Fine.” Johnny put his hands up in mock surrender, but under those innocent eyes of his, he was scheming. He was scheming bad.

~

“This is actually insane. Wait, do you think we look like a couple? Can I feed you a piece of chicken and you feed me a broccoli so we can make it look real?” you both giggled, absolutely relishing in the moment. And no, you two didn't look like a couple in the slightest. It was very apparent you were some fresh adults getting a taste of freedom, treating yourselves with your own money on your own time.

After a bit of yapping and fooling around, Tyler excused himself to the restroom, leaving you to sit and scroll on your phone for a moment. The insecurity had already weasled its way to you, as if it was just waiting for someone to open the door so it could barge in and ruin your night.

Do I look stupid sitting here alone? Is it weird? Does it look like someone stood me up? Be real, nobody's actually looking at you… right?

~

“Aye, ‘scuse me.” Tyler whipped his head up, death glare already set in place. 

I’m in the middle of washing my hands right now. What could this guy possibly wa- oh. Mohawk.

Johnny entered the bathroom, beaming, and peered around to make sure they were alone. “Don't mean to bother you, but are you with that lass out there? In front of the Christmas tree?” 

Johnny's smile was bright and honest, but Tyler knew better than to just give over trust. It was the guy from the bar, big man, military. Could very easily be an unsavory individual. He straightened his back and lowered his voice a bit. “Yeah. I’m with her.” Not disclosing the ‘BFF’ part in case he needed to play boyfriend.

Johnny seemed to notice his demeanor shift, and he gave a light laugh, his shoulders relaxing. “Don't worry, mate, I ain't gonna kidnap her or somthin’. Just… one of my mates wanted to talk to her. Saw you lot at the pub a while back and, truthfully, I’ve never seen the man so focused on someone all my life.” Tyler quickly put the pieces together. 

Mr. mysterious masked man. 

A small grin spread across his face, and his voice pitched back to normal. “Emo face mask guy?” 

Johnny practically howled, “Yeah! Yeah, that's the one. God, that's a fucking perfect description.” He gave Tyler the once over, “Look, you seem like a good kid. Protective of yer friend. I get that. I like that. But, do you think you could, I dunno, help me arrange a little meet up? I swear to you, he's a good man. Wouldn't lay a finger on her. God knows LT would have my head if he found out I was behind it all, too, so we have to make it look accidental.”

LT? Is that his name?

Tyler just stood there, mouth agape. He knew your type, but he also knew you. How easy it was to get into your head. How one little interaction could put you in a spiral for weeks. But he also knew how much you yearned. You wanted so badly to have someone. How your fears kept you from putting yourself out there. How you reacted that night said enough. You’d kill to know if that man wanted you, but you were too scared to actually do anything about it. “You said, make it look accidental? So there's like, no pressure?”

“Yeah, like…” Johnny put a finger on his chin and looked up in thought. “Like maybe…”

~

“Hey there, stranger, took you long enough.” You smiled as Tyler sat back down, feeling relieved by his presence.

“Alright now. Back off on my bowel movements.” You both laughed and continued your discussion on your next semester of classes and hectic work schedules. It was so easy to exist with Tyler, it's like you didn't have time to doubt yourself. He’d already proven time and time again that he was reliable, he cared, and he would love nothing more than to be seen with you in public. You didn't have time to microanalyze his every move. You didn't have time to notice his eyes flicking to a table across the goddamn restaurant and giving a small nod. 

“Hey, uh, I know you wanted to pick up some cake to go. You wanna go grab that while I sort the bill?” 

You were a bit thrown off by his sudden change of subject, but you thought little of it. “Hm? I- yeah, sure. Red velvet for you?”

“Yup!” he beamed an innocent smile, which made your eyebrow raise before you headed to the desert counter.

~

“Fuck me…” 

Well, he couldn't sit back down now. And he better get to walking lest he look like an idiot standing in the middle of a restaurant like some shadowy lighthouse. Simon took a sharp breath in, readjusting his black face mask and squaring his posture as he went to the desert counter. If there weren't kids around, he would've turned and wrung Johnny's neck.

His fingers clenched and unclenched as he reached the bake case. God, he could smell you. Some sickly sweet perfume you had on the time you first walked past him. He clenched his fists. “Two classic, and one dark chocolate gateau.” He tried to keep his voice as quiet as possible so you wouldn't notice him. Your eyes were glued to your phone, some silly cat video playing, giving you a laugh. Good. He needed to move out of the way now; a line was forming.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath before moving to a spot just a few feet away from you. You'd readjusted your glasses and clicked your phone off, opting to look up at the high ceilings and the chandeliers. Simon felt a shock of panic and shifted slightly to face away from you. 

Are you serious? Get it the fuck together, Riley. You're a soldier, not a teenager.

In his efforts to play it off, he glanced back at his table. The waitress was back and was already in an animated discussion with Kyle, his smile blinding even from so far away. 

Lucky bastard.

“Um, excuse me? I think they have your order ready.”

Simon’s head whipped around, and he was met with, well, you.

Your voice was a bit shaky but full of sweetness. The type he knew was forced to sound kind, to sound approachable. Non-threatening. It was something he always understood. He did the same, in a way. The smile you had wavered a bit when you met his eyes.

Did I scare her? Does she remember me? Fuck-

He cut off his own thoughts with a curt nod, grabbing the bag from the counter, and leaving without another glance your way.

And just like that, your wonderful night took a nosedive. Ignored again, by the same man no less. Would've stung less if it were just a stranger. Now you were convinced that the night he watched you at the bar, it was out of disgust. Out of malice. How can a creature like you be so ok to walk out in public? To have fun around pretty people. To exist in the same space as someone like him. 

You wanted to throw up. To scream and cry and throw a table. But you sucked it up, like always. Putting on a kind smile as you picked up your bag and headed back to your table.

“Ready to go?” Tyler asked, an expectant glint in his eyes. You gave a small nod.

You started down the sidewalk. “Lemme see that caaaaake!” Tyler practically yelled, making you scoff in amusement and dig in the bag. 

“Uh… Tyler?” You stopped in your tracks. He turned to look back at you.

“What's up?”

“I think I got the wrong bag,” you sighed. This night was now just shaping out to be plain cruel. Your stomach twisted in knots, and you felt like crying. It got even worse when you turned to go back inside and rammed right into the chest of someone with a rather loud sweater. Someone tall and strong, that much was obvious by how your nose stung from the contact. “Oh, I'm sorry! I'm so so sorry!” you panicked, shaking your hands in apology, fixing your glasses. It really did just keep getting worse. Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment as you practically shrank in on yourself.

“Whoa, lassie. It's alright, I'm unharmed.” A Scottish voice chuckled.

“Yeah, it would take a ten-ton truck to knock this wanker out.”

You finally looked up and saw the three men. Now, dawned in festive attire but no less recognizable, the guys from the bar. Now they were stopped in front of you. And… they weren't moving. You whipped your head back and shot a glance at Tyler, who was suppressing a shit-eating grin. 

What the fuck is going on-

“I do believe you have something of ours, though, ma'am. We were hoping to do a little exchange?” the Scottish voice chimed again, causing you to whip back around, now getting overwhelmed. They were bigger than you and, God, were they gorgeous. This is the type of scenario that you'd run through your mind countless times, and it always ended with you in tears. 

“Probably not even good enough for a quickie,” they'd sneer with a laugh, poking and prodding at your stomach and arms. Their faces would morph and stretch, voices getting closer and further to your ear like you were on a carousel. “Can you believe she tried to talk to us? What makes you think we’d even want you?”

“Lass?” Your eyes darted up to meet the Scotsman’s gaze; his eyebrow quirked in curiosity, eyes trailing from your cheeks to your wringing hands.

Pull it together. You're making yourself look like an idiot.

“Y-yes? Sorry. Um, do you mind-... uh… what was it that you said?”

Great job.

The men laughed lightly. This time, the older man spoke up.“Just wanted to retrieve our cake, ma’am. Afraid our bell-end of a mate stole your precious cargo.” he nodded his head behind him, and that's when you saw him. That big, rude, nasty man.

Kill me, kill me, kill me.

His eyes were glued to the wall, but his arm held out the bag, the intention clear. “Oh, I- sorry. Yeah, for sure we can swap.” You put on that overcompensating smile and exchanged the bags, now pissed that he wouldn't even look at you. You already felt repulsive, but this felt like much.

“Aye, thank you, lass. Say, I think we’ve seen you before.” Johnny smiled, holding out his hand. “‘M Johnny. These are my mates, Kyle, Price, and Ghost.” You clumsily shook his hand, wanting to burst into flames. 

Jesus Christ, your hands are so sweaty. Why can't you just shake hands like a normal person?

“Nice to meet y’all,” you nodded, gaze landing on the jerk again. 

Ghost? What the hell kind of name is that?

“Y’all,” Johnny tried. “I like that,” he chuckled. “Very American. Very…here.”

You laughed a bit. He was friendly, that's for sure. It was putting you at ease a bit, which made you hyperaware that you should be on guard. This is how they get you. Rope you in with a nice conversation to spin it on you in the end. Prey on your weaknesses for their own laughter. Pick on the lonely, ugly girl.

“Yeah, well, it's not every day I meet a crew of Europeans, so I suppose it'll slip out a little harsher than usual.” You nodded shyly, not daring to meet their gaze again. 

A beat of silence passed before Kyle spoke up, “Well, it was lovely to meet you. We gotta get this old man back to bed before his bones give out.”

“Oi!”

You gave a breathy chuckle, nodding again. “It was nice to meet you all, too.” It was right there. You were right on the edge of being rid of all this mess. They were about to leave, and you could finally breathe, finally let your posture hang, and your stomach go back to normal. They all gave a slight nod and wave before trekking down the other side of the pavement. 

Finally.

Tyler approached you like one would a wounded animal. “Hey. Everything alright?”

You looked up at him, breathing faster than usual, eyes a bit unfocused. “Yeah, just… let's go home.”

~

You were aware of the physical toll stress had on someone. Hell, it's the reason why your hair came out in the shower and why you broke out whenever a deadline approached. But the panic attacks were the worst part. You insisted to Tyler that you just needed some water and your dark bedroom, not wanting him to see you at your worst.

They left you tired and worn for days. You called out of work and took the time to just sit. You couldn’t even overthink that stupid interaction. Every time you tried, it's like your brain would pull the power cord. You couldn’t think about anything. Even your otome games couldn’t pull you out. Your brain locked itself down, confining you to your bed sheets and an internal silent Hell.

~

“Don't fucking look at me, MacTavish.”

“Oh, c’mon, it was just a wee bit of fun! Besides, we got to know the lass a bit. Skittish thing, she is.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Simon and Johnny had been in the armory, cleaning some weapons they'd just used on a quick search and seizure for some wannabe cartel. It was moments like these that Simon usually enjoyed the most. Johnny would talk his ear off while he just nodded or gave an occasional grunt of acknowledgment. It was about all the structured socialization he allowed himself past mission briefings.

But today was different.

“You wouldn’t have even looked at her otherwise-” 

Simon grabbed the man's vest straps and shoved him against the wall. Johnny was a good soldier, a damn good soldier. Worked his way up the ranks in record time, fought men twice his size to come out with only a scrape. But Ghost was different. No one who encountered Ghost ever came out the victor, or alive. And right now, Johnny didn't see Simon’s eyes; he saw Ghost’s.

“Oi! LT, relax! I was just kidding around.” his hands gripped Simon’s arms, hoping some sort of contact would bring him back, but he just stood there. Not blinking, not moving. Hell, it didn't look like he was breathing. “Simon…” Johnny called gently.

It was about to be winter, but the trees hadn't shed yet. 

Instead, colors of green, yellow, red, and orange painted the landscape surrounding the school grounds. It was pretty, yes, but it also felt so… empty. From your vantage point on top of some rickety climbing toy, you could see everyone below playing, but right outside of the playground and fields, there was stillness. Leaves that didn’t fall, clinging onto the last bit of life they had. A last piece of connection before its mortal drop. Maybe that's why you didn’t like autumn. It made you tense, on edge. Like you were waiting and waiting for everything to shed and succumb to the harsh cold of winter. Maybe you didn’t like autumn because you lived your life like autumn.

~

Back at the Bar…

“Heeyyyy, I think Motto Motto likes you~” You felt a jab in your side, which caused your heart to spike once more, tearing your eyes away from the masked man to scold your friend through gritted teeth.

“Tyler, shut up! You don't even know- ugh. Just- shh.” You covered your mouth with your hand so the big stranger wouldn't be able to read your lips, if he was even still looking. “He's probably not even looking at me. I think he's just observing, you know? Military people do that sort of thing.” And at the realisation that holding your hand over your mouth made you look even more suspicious, you clasped your hands together under the table, praying he wasn't looking.

This all just earned a laugh from Tyler as he started to scoot out from the booth, pushing you out despite your pleas. Your heart dropped into your stomach at the thought of him forcing some sort of connection between you both. The possibility of humiliation and embarrassment making your body feel like jelly. “C’mon. Move. I just need to get a water.” At the realisation that he wouldn't be dragging you over to the men, you sighed a bit in relief and let him out, all the while making sure you faced away from Mr. Mysterious. 

You spent the next hour more or less painfully avoiding any sort of visual interaction with that whole side of the bar, and you breathed a sigh of relief when the “I’m getting tired” comments started picking up. Great. An escape. Or at least, an escape that was guarded by the men like some Spirit Halloween animatronics, ready to pounce as you walked by. You know what, maybe staying wasn't such a bad idea.

“All right, let's go,” Tyler announced, shoving you out again and grabbing his coat. He could sense your panic in an instant and threw an arm around your shoulders. “Chill. You’re fine. We’re all here. Worst thing that can happen is he stops you, gets your number, and maybe you finally get some action-” 

“Tyler,” you scolded with a sternness that instantly melted to a small laugh. If only he knew. If only he knew how repulsed you were by those types of thoughts. At the fantasies you wanted to have, but felt ashamed of. Like you could never see yourself in that position. Like you didn’t deserve to think of yourself that way.

“See, you're ok. Let's go,” you nodded and made your trek to the exit, Tyler taking his arm off of you, mentioning something about cockblocking. It made you roll your eyes, but you pressed forward, keeping your focus on the door. You'd only been to one haunted house before when you were a kid, but you swear it felt exactly like this. And just as you reached the threshold of the exit- 

“Oi, ma'am. You dropped somethin’.” You whipped your head around like a deer in headlights and were met with the side profile of the man with the beautiful smile. Now it was on full display for you to see as he handed your friend Sam her wallet. She, of course, absolutely basked in his chivalry and blushed, giving a coy, “Thank you”.

“Not a problem, love. Have a good night,” he mused with a tone so smooth there's no way he hadn’t had suitors lined down the block. Extra points added for the accent.

“You too,” she replied with a flip of her hair and a calm exit that was more of a saunter than before, hiding a massive grin. It made you… envious. How easy it was for Sam to stand there and not look a fool. To be confident enough not to stumble over her words and know she had something to show off. You were snapped out of your thoughts right as she got to you at the door, where you nudged her arm with a giggle before leaving.

That night, when you laid in bed, you put your phone down. Instead of scrolling, you just lie there, running through all the possible scenarios that could have been if that man had approached you. If you were the one who dropped your wallet, if you were the one who flipped her hair and commanded the attention of everyone in the room. 

“Stupid.” you groaned before turning to your side and hugging a pillow.

~

The three men all exchanged glances and burst out laughing. “You just can’t help it, can you? Always a knight in shining armor. Your highness Kyle Garrick, prince of saving damsels and breaking hearts.” Price teased, causing Kyle to shrug his shoulders with a pleased grin.

“Hey, not my fault I have an air of effortless charm. Maybe you all can take a few tips. ‘Specially you, Riley.” he lifted his glass to gesture to the man across from him, his back to the wall, drink still untouched. “If you wanted to talk to that girl, you should’ve just done it.”

“Yeah, LT. C’mon, you need Kyle and I to show you the ropes? There's looaddds of ladies here that would fall to their feet for those biceps of yours. How about, ‘Johnny and Kyle’s course on wooing ladies and lovemaking-’” 

“Shut it.”

The table erupted in laughter once more, the quiet soldier now fidgeting with his glass. “Oh, cmon, you were staring at the lass all night. Give us somethin'?” Johnny pleaded, words now slurring together from the alcohol. But he was met with silence and a cold stare.

After a beat, the man put down a $20 bill on the table, “Heading home. Have to be up early tomorrow.” 

~

A Few Weeks Later…

“Well, that's the last of it,” you smiled nervously as you looked around your new apartment. Your very own space, well, half of it at least. You were now roommates with Tyler. 

“Yeah. Got your charger, your pots and pans, all your posters up, your figures, oh, and I even left you guys with some meals in the fridge and freezer,” your mother rambled.

“Mom,” you laughed. “I’m just a 10-minute drive away. Cmon, I'll see y’all all the time.” And with that, your mother burst into tears as she practically stumbled over herself to hug you, dragging Tyler in. Your father sighed and joined.

“I know, but you're not supposed to leave the house yet. Just know your room will always be there, always.” You nodded and squeezed tighter before letting go. 

“I love you guys, and besides, I’ll see you next week for Christmas.” Your mother wiped her eyes, and your father gave a groan of impatience before grunting out a “Call us if you need anything,” ushering your rambling mother out.

There was a moment of silence before you and Tyler glanced at each other with mischievous grins. “...WE HAVE OUR OWN PLACE! AAAHHH!” You both started running around, high-fiving each other, and climbing on furniture before the adrenaline wore off, and you both plopped on the couch. “This is gonna be awesome. Best friends?” You held out your pinky.

“Forever.” Tyler finished before wrapping his pinky around yours.

~

“Cmooonn LT. It's gonna be Christmas, and I won't be able to see your sorry mug for a whole week. We need men's time again.”

“Johnny, no.”

Johnny let out a petulant grunt and sank onto the chair in front of his superior's desk, which didn't even award him a glance. His lieutenant's fingers typed onto his laptop with an unstopping and harsh cadence. “Simon, come on. You need this.”

At the mention of his first name, he froze, brown eyes pinning the Scottsamn where he sat. “I don't need any of that, Johnny. Last time you took us out was a shit show, remember? Something about some fucking college night or whatever the fuck.”

But Johnny didn't back down; in fact, he pushed it, leaning forward with his hands splayed on the desk. “It wasn't a shit show. We all had fun! Sure, there were a bit more folk than usual, but it got you out of the house and this damn office! God, Simon, can't you see that you're killing yourself here?! Office, house, field, office, house, field- it's like you can't see that there's people who give a shit about you-”

“MacTavish.” The bass in his voice made the glasses on the desk tremble, and Johnny soon shut his mouth. But it wasn’t out of fear; it was out of anger. Frustration.

“You know what? Fine. Do whatever you want. But don't go crying to yourself later as if you have no one. We want you around LT. Always have.” his voice was sharp with anger, but his words were kind. The type of thing that would pull at anyone's heartstrings, but maybe Simon didn’t have those anymore. Maybe he was convincing himself he didn't.

The door slammed closed.

~

He ambled down the meat aisle. The butcher's corner was thankfully closed for the night, so he didn’t have to interact with any overbearing attendants. But that smell… it always brought up bad memories. But he shoved it down for the sake of protein. Same as always, a couple pounds of ground beef and maybe a couple steaks should last him the month. Not like he ate much at home anyway, always quick to indulge in the on-base cafeteria food.

Last stop would be the frozen isle. He didn't have many pleasures in life besides a good whiskey and a smoke, but mint ice cream was something he allowed himself. Not like he would let his men know that, though. 

Grab a pint. Check out. Head to extraction.

At least those were his plans before a variable found her way to the freezers first.

It was a bit ridiculous, you standing there rubbing your chin, racking your brain on which brand would be better. The full basket in your arms weighing you down as you looked at the ingredients. “That's a fuck ton of calories,” you mumbled before putting back a Häagen-Dazs. This, coupled with your worn-out arm, caused you to shove it a little harsher than expected, knocking down a pint. It slipped through your hands and rolled down the aisle, stopping at a set of black boots.

“Oh, I'm sorry!” you fretted, letting the freezer door slam shut and moving to pick up the runaway dessert, not yet looking at your victim. 

“It's fine,” a deep voice grumbled, scooping it up before you to examine it himself. Only then did you look up and see who he was. It had to be him. That man from weeks ago. The short blond hair, the mask, the jacket that looked ready for war. There's just no one else like him you'd ever seen before.

You're staring.

You quickly pushed up your glasses with your free hand and hoisted your basket up again, putting on a smile a little too big for such a small interaction. “Sorry, just, long day. Brains all frazzled,” you laughed nervously, waiting for any type of reply. He glanced up at you, and you instantly turned back to the freezer. 

“You should get this one,” he mumbled, holding up the pint before dropping it in his basket. Stupid Hagen Daz.

“O-oh? Yeah, I think I've-” you looked up only to see him walking down the aisle, not a single care about your opinions on the dessert. It felt like heartbreak, maybe even worse. That feeling of being ignored. The feeling of being so insignificant in someone's life that they can't even spare a second to speak to you. To let you finish a sentence. You gripped your basket tighter before buying, grabbing some off-brand ice cream and heading to the registers. It wasn't the first time this had happened, certainly not the last, but it still stung.

~

Christmas Eve…

“AAYYY! There's our fearsome leader! C’mon, LT, saved you a seat.” Johnny clapped his back and kicked a chair out from under the table. He was, of course, dressed in the brightest, most obnoxious Christmas sweater you could find. Across the table sat Kyle and Price, Kyle with a nice maroon dress shirt and reindeer tie, and Price with a red sweater and Santa hat. Fitting.

“You lot are festive.” 

“Aye. We’re just gettin' in the spirit. And don't worry, you haven't missed much. Kyle's just been charming the pants off our waitress. I keep telling ‘em, one day we're gonna get the check, and none of his shits gonna be on there.” Johnny teased with a wide grin.

“I’m glad you came, Simon.” Price grumbled, his tone that of a father who's finally reconnecting with his rebellious child. Careful not to push it, but all the while relieved. “I got you something,” he fished through a big gift bag that was sitting beside his chair, pulling out a small red gift box tied with a green bow. Simon could feel his stomach churning. Everyone was watching him to see howhed react, if he reacted. “You don't need to open it now. Just think of it as a small token of appreciation from your captain.” Simon gave a stiff nod before sliding the box to the side, not daring to meet the eyes of Kyle or Johnny. 

Shit, did they all bring gifts?

“Oh, here she comes. Watch how this fucker acts.” Johnny whispered to Simon, gesturing to Kyle.

~

“I just can't believe it. On our own, first Christmas Eve away from family, a fancy restaurant.” Tyler wiggled his eyebrows at that last part. “We’re really doing it. I mean, this is what people in their 20s are supposed to do!” 

You laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I mean… this is it.”

“And we also look so good too, I mean, cmon.” You laughed out loud at this. You'd chosen to wear a dress for the first time in eons. Your newfound independence has given you the slightest bit of confidence.

“It's a fresh start. You can change everything… Maybe things will get better.” You told yourself as you dragged the blade along your shin. “Ow fuck. Shitty ass razor.”

It was a dress you'd had in your closet for a couple of years, bought on sale, too afraid to wear it out. It was a cream baby doll dress, paired with red tights and red flats. You didn't keep your hair in a hat like most days, and this time opted for a few sparkling clips. Maybe you didn’t feel like a supermodel, but you didn't hate how you looked. That was a first these days.

The restaurant itself was gorgeous. Warm lights bathed the glossy mahogany tables and chairs. The biggest Christmas tree you've ever seen lit up in the corner, giving everything a sparkle. Tyler squeezed your hand. It was the first time you'd both gotten a reservation, save for birthday parties.

As the waiter led you to your table, you were unaware of a set of eyes following your every move.

“What’re ya lookin at, LT?” Johnny whispered, looking around the restaurant, assessing for threats with a serious concentration. 

Simon just bit his cheek and shook his head. “Nothin’ Johnny.” But that didn't stop him. Johnny gazed over his shoulder as if trying to look through Simon's eyes, and they landed on a couple sitting at a table in front of a Christmas tree, absolutely giddy, taking countless photos of their plates or the scenery. 

“Oi. Isn't that the lass from the pub a couple weeks back?”

Simon cleared his throat and looked down at his steak, poking it around with his fork. “No.” There was an air of finality in his voice that made Johnny all the more convinced it was her. 

“Riley. You leaving so soon?”

“Aye, sir. Reports are sent in. Clocking out for the night.”

The big man at the doorframe gave a nod. The size of his biceps were exentuated by his crossed arms, filling up the space, providing no exit unless he moved or was removed. That's how most of the men on base were, though, or at least, the men in Task Force 141. Big, solid, 

unmoving, all commanding. It was required if you were to be recruited. They needed the unmovable objects. The unstoppable forces. A small badge that hung from a thick tan leather tactical belt showed the small insignia of a bird and sword, a golden plate underneath inscribed with ‘Capt. John Price’.

His eyes took inventory of the room. Desk tidied, papers stacked, window blinds shut, file and gun cabinets closed, chair pushed neatly into place, whisky bottle untouched, and a leather jacket being lifted from an otherwise barren coat rack. Everything in its place, not a speck of dust to be seen, everything in order. No sign of life.

“Riley,” the captain started, not moving from his position. “You’ll go out with the boys one of these nights, yeah?”

“...Yes, sir.”

~

The drive home was quiet as always. The hum of his beast of a truck kept his eyes open despite the soothing trance of the black pavement, broken occasionally by an empty intersection. His house didn’t provide any more stimulation, really. A home filled only with the essentials: couch, fridge, a table, and 1 chair. His bedroom was much of the same. Sheets and curtains were the same deep gray, both in pristine condition. The only sign the room even belonged to someone was the pair of oval reading glasses that sat on the nightstand, unsmudged, and a bookmarked copy of ‘No Longer Human’. Perhaps the most lived-in room was the study or garage, partially because it held the most things related to work: files, computers, dumbbells, punching bags, guns.

He took his boots off at the door, tucking them neatly on an empty shoe rack, and he did a sweep of the home. Everything was as he had left it; no rooms contained any unwanted visitors. The cameras were operating smoothly, and alarms were set for the night. The soldier afforded himself a warm shower before bed. The type where he spent the first half washing up, then the remainder just standing, letting the scalding water droplets burn his skin and dry out his scars. He stares at nothing in particular, mind wandering from one subject to the next. Then eventually he’ll turn the water off, step out, and change into a shirt and sweatpants that were folded on the sink counter before lying down. And tonight was no different from every other night. He lay there staring at the ceiling, thoughts slowing to a halt, but eyelids refusing to budge despite a desperate yearn for rest. After an hour, he'd fall asleep.

~

“Oh my god,” you giggled to yourself before your thumb swiped upwards.

“Are you even listening? Helloooooo”

‘Yeah, I’m listening,” you mumbled before giggling again. You heard a sigh on the other end of the phone.

“So yeah, I just really would like for you to come. It’ll be me and the rest of the group, and I’ve already been, so I know it's safe. And, besides, you’d get to meet my new man, and you can sniff out if he's a secret villain or not.” At that, you gave a small chuckle. 

“That's true. It's just… I have a lot of homework, you know-”

“UGGHHHH.” 

“Oh come on now-”

“UUUUGGGHHHHHH.”

“Tyler I-”

“AAARRRUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH.”

“Fine, I’ll go!” you yelled with a laugh. This earned a pleased, cheeky “Thank you”.

“But you know I’ll be stuck to you guys like glue. And if someone comes to talk to y'all, I’ll look like an awkward jackass,” you mumbled, moving to lie on your stomach.

“No, you won't. You'll be fiiinneee. Besides, you're my bestie. I’m not letting you brood by yourself in your room or at the bar.” At that, you couldn’t help but smile. One of those real, involuntary smiles that made your cheeks hurt. If you had one piece of proof that family can be found just as it's given from birth, Tyler was your proof. And God, were you grateful you'd found him, or rather, he found you.

“...Thanks, Tyler… Well, I’m gonna head to bed then. If y’all are trying to keep me up all night tomorrow, I might as well get some sleep now.”

“You're not going to bed,” he deadpanned.

“I'm not.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

God… what have you gotten yourself into?

You tossed your body to lie on your back once more, staring at the ceiling, the fan spinning and spinning as it has been for years. That's a constant. That's safe. The bar? That's not safe. Sure,e it was 18+ on Thursdays, which meant tightened security, but you still didn’t want to go. Scratch that, you WANT to go, but you're scared. So many people, so many eyes, social cues to pick up on, interactions to be had. It was all new and not the safe kind of new. The kind of new that would keep you up for hours. You’d grown up seeing movies depict the bar as a place to meet interesting people, to order a drink “on the rocks” and look around all mysterious, waiting for someone to initiate conversation that would change your life forever. But that's not how things work, and you know it. No one would approach you, save for seedy individuals who were nothing more than predators. And predators will prey on just about anything.

9:36 p.m. The Next Night…

“Yeah, you can park right here. We can walk.”

The bar was surprisingly lively for a Thursday, undoubtedly due to the open access. College kids sat around with their virgin drinks, posing as if they were holding a cup of the bar's strongest stuff. The usual swathes of middle-aged folk huddled closer to the bar than usual to get away from the ruckus. It was all a bit much and yet entirely disappointing. For whatever reason, you'd conflated ‘bar’ with ‘club’ and were a bit surprised to see a lack of strobe lights and embarrassing gyrating. Maybe that was a good thing. 

Your friends ushered you in and quickly ordered a few drinks and plenty of fries. The booth that was chosen was dingy and damp, so you chose to sit on the outside. Better access to the doors to escape.

And like that, an hour or two went by, and it felt like nothing. In fact, you were enjoying yourself. Sugary drinks, salty fries, good friends, and a crowd of people only interested in mingling with those they already knew, this was actually…fun. You hadn't worried about your posture or the way your jeans dug into your stomach. It was nice.

“Hold on, I’mma use the restroom real quick. Be right back,” you announced, wiping a tear from your eye due to some stupid joke about “Fuck my chungus life”. Your friends nodded, Tyler watching you as you left ot make sure no one snatched you up.

The bathroom was about as quality as you expected. Graffiti on the stalls, a suspicious puddle in the corner, and a soap dispenser on its last leg. Once you were finished, you caught sight of your appearance in the dirty mirror. Your complexion was worn out from the slightly blue downlight. Your hair a bit of a frizzy mess. But in this moment, you ripped yourself away from staring. “You're having a good night. It's a good night.” You mumbled to yourself before tugging on your top and leaving the bathroom.

Nothing had changed from your short trip. Well, excluding the 4 large men who now occupied a standing table, dressed in camo pants and heavy jackets. The shortest had to be at least six foot and their absolute size made the table look like a kid's toy. But you kept moving, eyes lingering for just a second and nothing more. What if they saw? What if they saw you staring? Someone like you? Yeah, ignored in a heartbeat if not, mocked and ridiculed. You didn't even deserve to think about the idea. You sat back down and, unfortunately, came to the conclusion that your seat had a clear view of them. But you still couldn't hide the grin spreading across your face as you and all your friends exchanged glances. 

“So uh… You think they'd want me?” one of your friends remarked, and the booth's silence was destroyed by a chorus of laughter, everyone's cheeks turning red as you huddled together and talked about the “young one with a cute butt” or “that DILF with a nice beard” in hushed whispers.

“I’m just saying, they could throw me around all they want. All four of ‘em. At ONCE.” 

And for a little while, you’d almost forgotten they were standing a mere 10 feet away, or at least that's what you told yourself. In reality, your back straightened, and you had sucked your stomach in, trying not to laugh too loud or make any sudden movements. 

“You know, one for each of us, I mean, Sam can get the nice-butt guy, Chris can get that mohawk dude, I’ll get that DILF, and you can have that big guy with the mask,” Tyler smirked as he nudged your arm. It was all playful and just talk, but a part of you kicked yourself for even entertaining the idea. “C’mon. I know what you have saved on your Pinterest, that's literally your type to a T.” 

You gave a stilted laugh. “Yeah, I mean… youre not wrong…” You dared to look up again, this time observing each one. The shortest or “mohawk guy” looked like a model, but oh my god, was he loud. Laughing and patting shoulders every 4 seconds. Maybe he was already drunk. The man beside him was thinner with rich, warm brown skin and a smile that screamed ‘Prince Charming’. Occasionally, he'd put a hand on the rowdy man's back to steady him as he laughed along. Then there was the DILF, or rather, the older man with a weird beard. Probably isn't even a father, you thought. Or he was a girl dad. He just gave off those vibes with the way his eyes crinkled, and his head shook, yet he never let out a full, hearty laugh. Then, finally, there was the big mysterious masked man. He stood there like a brick wall, unmoving, unreadable, head down. His hand held a glass of some brown liquid, yet it remained full. You hadn’t seen him laugh, partially because of a black face mask, but otherwise because you could feel what he felt even 10 feet away, and it wasn’t joy. This man was uncomfortable. The way his shoulders nearly reached his ears, how his eyes roamed the room as if studying every person or thing in sight. Any sort of escape. An out. The way he looked like a fish out of water. That's how you always looked. You exhaled from your nose, slightly sending telepathic well wishes to a fellow introvert. 

Good luck, soldier.

But before you could turn back to your friends, his eyes locked with yours, and your blood went cold. Instantly, you snapped your attention onto Tyler, smiling and laughing in a way that you prayed conveyed “Oh, I wasn't really looking at you. You must’ve just met my eyes by accident. See? I’m very naturally talking to my friends right now.” Despite your hands wringing under the table, you tried so hard to look natural. Your cheeks had warmed up, and you'd kicked yourself for even feeling this way. 

He's HOT. Come on. Get. Real.

You found yourself messing with your hair a bit more, biting your lips in anxiety, and arching your back more to appear more put together than you felt. You’d decided to wear a pair of bootcut jeans and a fitted t-shirt. It was something you had convinced yourself you could wear. 

I’m fine. I look FINE. You'd commanded yourself in the mirror before getting in your car quickly, so you couldn’t change into something with more coverage.

But now it felt like a self-imposed trap. You felt like a tryhard. An attention seeker. Why are you even doing all this? It's not like anyone cares. It's not like he’ll pay you any mind. Just chill. He probably wasn't even really looking at you.

Life is not kind. Life is messy. People are messy. Maybe that's why you like to spend your time with your face engrossed in your phone, consuming and consuming every bit of media you can find that you know is tailored to your exact interests. You don’t have to think too much that way. You don’t have to talk to anyone; watch their eyes intently to make sure they aren’t looking at one of your flaws. 

Insta Reels? Check. Otome games? Check. Pinterest boards? Check. Netflix? Check. An embarrassingly large amount of AO3 self-insert tabs? Check. 

What else is there for a girl like you?

A girl with crooked glasses, hairy arms, blemished skin. A girl whose hair gets greasy too fast and whose nails are bitten to hell. 

Sure, you have a few friends. Yeah, you have a job. You even go to university, and have a few hobbies you’ve stopped caring about. You have opinions, ideas, likes, dislikes. A family that cares.

But that doesn't fix things, does it?

It doesn't fix the way your hands pull and tug at the hem of your shirt. The way you've never spoken to your professors or any of your classmates. The way you’ve spent the last 15 years of living, staying awake for hours to imagine what it would be like for someone to hold you. 

Those things are all just a byproduct of something far worse than the small parts by themselves. They're signs. You know it, and you're sure everyone else does, too, all 8 billion people on this Earth. 

You’re an ugly girl.

Chapter 1

LINK ON AO3

CW/ Complex relationship with food, self-degradation, mentions of self-harm (although non graphically depicted), weight insecurity, body dysmorphia, mentions of misogyny, mentions of sex (no smut...yet)

This is copy and pasted from my AO3, so this A/N is a bit outdated and cringe but ykw who cares

A/N HEY Y’ALL! So I've been sitting with this idea for ages because, in 100% transparency, THIS IS BASED ON MY REAL LIFE EXPERIENCES AND WISHES, and YEA,  I WANNA WRITE SOMETHING WHERE I CAN PROVIDE MYSELF SOME SORT OF CATHARSIS WITH MY FAVORITE CHARACTERS. SUE ME ToT 

HOUSEKEEPING: MC is not referred to as y/n; I will be using nicknames instead. MC is a bigger woman/afab and able-bodied. Most other characteristics, like hair color and texture, skin color, eye color, etc., are not specified! <3

I think it's really important in this situation to let everyone know where I’m coming from because this isn’t going to be a pretty story… I am fat, queer, have social anxiety, and am what society would deem “UGLY”. I think often times, folk who are ugly or unattractive, especially those socialised as girls, often feel the need to retreat to fanfiction or other media to project themselves onto a character they wish they were, although it's like fitting a circle into a square. I know this because I AM ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. And yes, I. Am. Ugly. It's very easy for people who are deemed socially attractive to say “Oh no, you're beautiful!” when there is a clear distinction in treatment. If we accept things like “pretty privilege,” we also have to acknowledge those who suffer with the very real, very isolating “ugly disadvantage”, me being one of those people. And no I am not fishing for compliments and yes MANY people have it worse, and their struggles should be recognized and spoken to!

If it isn't already clear, this story is not one to demonize unattractive people or put them down. Instead, I write this as a sort of comfort. I want MC to go through their own type of butterfly transformation so to speak (mentally). Essentially, if you read this story and find yourself going “SHE'S JUST LIKE ME FR” then I did my job. If you don’t, then maybe it’ll come across as uncomfortable or weird (hopefully you’ll still enjoy? it), but art is supposed to disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed or whatever that quote says. 

Also, I hope it's clear that unattractive or ugly are not insults to me. Instead, it is just a state of being that is socially constructed to have negative ramifications. Just like how fatness isn't an insult to me (I am fat, dw, all my big divas are safe here, I love you all sm), instead it is just a state of being. I am not trying to convince anyone to feel bad about themselves; instead, I want to provide a very raw and real depiction of what it's like to be ugly, and what it's like to be ugly and WANT.

So yeah, this will be dark-ish, not in that Booktok type of way, but instead a very raw, very internal, unspoken (although im writing it so...) way. And I hope it can provide even the smallest bit of comfort to folks that feel, or have felt, a similar way to me, because God knows I wish there were more pieces of media that talked about this sort of thing.

And yes, it is a stupid COD fanfiction because of actually valid and artistic reasons, but also because I just love Simon Riley. Please afford me this simple pleasure ToT

And if any of that feels too much for you, please, please, please, do not read and take care of yourself first. Talk to friends, watch a sunset, eat food YOU LIKE, set up a therapy appointment. Whatever it is, always prioritize your mental well-being over some weird person's ramblings online.

The building seemed out of place in the small metropolitan city, a relic of years passed. The building stood shorter than the others, as if defiantly boasting its longevity and persistence. A retro overhang protected a small line of various cars in disarray, some classic, some new. You tried to peer into the dusty brown windows to no avail. Walking in felt like a deathtrap, and you could already feel your pulse spiking at the thought of confrontation. But the address was correct, and the name matched the one given by your friend. 

In faded white painted letters above the attached garage, it read:

Task Force Auto Body & Repair

“Ugh... what the hell.”

You took a deep breath, clutching your tote bag and entered through the glass door. Its hinge was so tight, it felt as though it might snap shut on you if you didn't enter quickly enough. Adding fuel to the fire was the loud, resounding bell that chimed upon your entrance. The lobby was barren save for the row of old pink chairs lined against the wall. The black-and-white tiled floors looked like they'd seen better days as well. A 20-year-old TV was perched in the corner of the room, covered in dust and lying dormant. Besides the cracks on the milky blue walls, what drew your attention was a singularly hung photograph. As you stepped closer, it seemed to be a military photo. Four burly men, one laughing loudly, one proud and chin up, one looming like a wall with a skull mask, and the last-

“Can I help you?”

You swivelled fast to face the desk that seemed to be the barrier between the lobby and the garage. The door behind it swung open now to release the sounds of tools and incomprehensible words and laughs. And behind the desk stood…

“Are you lost, sweetheart?”

You gulped and clutched your bag, finally facing the man directly and stumbling through your words.

“Uh- no, sir. I mean- no. Sorry. I’m here about my car…”

He was tall and broad in the most classical definition of the word. Standing with a relaxed posture, his tanned shoulders filled out a dirty white t-shirt that revealed his hairy arms. His large calloused hands were occupied by a rag, cleaning off oil stains from each digit. The hair on his face swooped down his side burns, to his jaw, then up to a moustache, silly on everyone else presumably, but it did wonders for him and his sharp brown eyes that seemed to narrow at your nervousness. He was intimidating for sure, but you couldn’t deny the allure the older man had. He had an aura that exuded warmth, whether that be a comforting fireplace or the sting of a spent bullet.

“Right. Your car.” He set down the rag and rested both palms on the counter, leaning over a bit. “Last night? Break down? Black Honda Civic?” His voice was rough and… British? You tried not to think about it too much as you gave him a silent nod. He gave a small tch and nodded towards the door in return. “Alright then. Shouldn't be too long.” 

Without any further ceremony, he walked through, holding it behind him, expecting you to follow. So you did, scampering behind the counter like you'd never been invited to a space before. 

That's when you got a waft of warm air and the distinct smell of motor oil. Cars weren't found in the small garage that was visible from the street; instead, they were lined up in the huge attached space behind the shop. That's where all the tools and equipment lay, and giant industrial fans blew from every angle. Some tools in piles, some lining the walls, some on work benches. The ceiling was made up of old glass panels, bringing warm brown stained lightstreams into the shop. Cars and motorcycles lay around with yours proudly suspended in the air on a platform as if it were worth anything. Truthfully, you'd been waiting years for it to kick the bucket. Underneath it was a man, one you recognised by smile alone. The laughing man from that picture. He waved around a wrench, animatedly retelling some story to the only two other men in the garage. One crossed his arms and gave a small laugh with an easy smile, the other large and seemingly ignoring him as he rummaged through a tool kit, until he gave a small huff of amusement. Your mind strung the pieces together.

The banter was silenced when the man next to you yelled over them.

“Oi! How much longer?”

All the men instantly looked at him, posture a bit straighter.

“Just a wee bit longer. Only a few more bolts and shite,” the man under your car spoke. Scottish, that much was apparent. His smile spread wider as he glanced at you, your nervous form like a deer in headlights. “This your car, lass?”

You nodded your head, adjusting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Yes- I mean. Yeah. It's my… car…” You clear your throat and try to straighten your posture, too.

The man with his arms crossed gave a small laugh before turning his easy smile to you. “It's in good hands. I know he looks like a wanker with that mohawk, but he knows his way around an undercarriage-” his tease was cut off by a screwdriver thrown at his head that he promptly dodged with a snicker.

“Boys!” the man next to you barked, causing them all to stop once more. This time, the laughing pair looked guilty for a moment before getting back to work in silence. The man turned to you with a quieter voice in your ear and a hand on the small of your back, as he guided you to a small chair. “You can sit here, sweetheart. They're almost done.”

You found yourself obeying; any other choice would be criminal. So there you sat, awkwardly clutching your bag as you watched the four men work on your car. It wasn't like you could watch anything else. Your chair faced them, and getting up felt impossible without drawing more awkward attention to you.

“You're not the one who called, aren't you?” The big, quiet man spoke up as he walked by your seat, carrying a toolbox to another car platform. 

“Uh, no. It was my friend, actually.”

This earned a small laugh from the easy-going man with caramel skin. “Figured. Not every day do we get a pretty girl asking for our help.”

“Oi! Speak for yourself!” the Scotsman jolted up in offence, which earned him another laugh. 

“I'm Kyle.” The man walked up to you with a warm smile and hand extended, meeting you at your chair rather than having you stand to meet him. You returned the shake, and before you could utter your name, you heard a string of introductions shouted from different points in the room.

“I'm Johnny!”

“Simon.”

“I’m John. Sorry for such a late introduction, darling.” 

You shivered at the pet name and nodded. “It's okay.”

A few more minutes pass as you listen in on their banter. They seem to work with an efficiency and rhythm that can only be gained with years of trust building. It seemed so easy for them, a flow that was unnatural to outsiders. You zoned out for a while before a warm hand planted on your shoulder, and a warm musk filled your senses.

“Let's get your payment sorted, sweetheart. They're just gonna take it for a spin to make sure it's alright.”

You nodded and followed like a startled shadow. This was too much testosterone for one day. You'd dealt with hundreds of people in a one-hour span before, constant interaction, yet the simple intimacy of four men and a hand on your shoulder made your brain short-circuit.

John pushed a hand through his short, dark brown hair as he plopped a notepad on the counter.

“Alright then. Not too much work done,” he started listing off a string of automotive ailments that seemed anything BUT not too much, each symptom punctuated with a tap of his pen. Finally, he looked up at you. “$340.”

Oh, that certainly wasn't right.

“Only $340? For all of that?” You started fishing out your card, thankfully it looked like they had a small mobile card reader. Perhaps the only thing in that shop younger than 20 years old.

“Mhm. Were not like those big shops, love. $340 covers it.” and before further protest, he plucked the card from your fingers, scanning it through and giving it back with a small receipt. “They should be back in a few. Sit where you like.”

As he turned to head back into the garage, a question was pulled from the core of your being. It was like some divine force commanded you to ask it.

“So you guys repair cars often?”

Jesus Christ…

John huffed a small laugh, cheeks turning a light pink as he turned his head to face you again. 

“Yeah, sweetheart. We do it often.”

“So… do you… like…it?” You tried to mask your unpreparedness with a nervous boxy smile.

“Yeah, I like it.” he turned to you fully now, arms crossed and looking you over as if you were some kid visiting a fire station on a field trip, all curious and eager to please. His tone should come across as patronising, but his eyes felt so gentle that you found yourself pushing further.

“That's cool… I work at the grocery store.”

A small silence stretched on, allowing you to start mentally berating yourself. Although it was cut short by barking laughter.

“That's nice, love.” John moved a hand down his grey peppered beard, still smiling. He looked you over again before giving a small approving nod and heading back into the garage.

You spent the next five minutes sitting in a creaky plastic pink chair, running the scenario over and over in your mind. If you had a nickel every time you called yourself an idiot, you'd have made your money back on the repair fee.

BEEP BEEP

You shot up at the sound of your car horn and walked outside. Resting against your car was Simon, twirling the keys around one finger. He seemed to be talking with John about the ride. Once they caught sight of you, Simon nodded and handed over the keys.

“No problems. You're set.”

You gave a small thank you as you glanced at him, then back up at John, cheeks flushing from your own previous floundering embarrassment. He returned your gaze with a soft smile, which gave the perfect window for Simon to slip away into the shadows.