The house was quiet—too quiet. No gunfire, no shouted orders, no sand in your teeth. Just the low hum of the fridge, the distant bark from Riley out back, and the sound of Simon’s boots pacing the upstairs bedroom.

He hadn’t been the same since the discharge. Stripped of the uniform, the mission, the clarity. Ghost was gone, and what was left behind still hadn’t figured out how to breathe without orders.

Downstairs, the weight of him creaked against the floorboards. He appeared in the hallway mirror first, a blur of tattoos and tension, holding up a black shirt like it was a defusal op. His brows were drawn tight, mouth pressed in a thin, almost apologetic line.

“Do you think this’ll be okay?” he asked, voice low, rough, a little hoarse—like he’d forgotten how to use it around anyone but you.

He was going out for the first time in months. One beer. Just with Soap and Gaz. Nothing dangerous. But you could see it—the way his hand trembled just slightly at the hem, the way his shoulders stayed squared like he expected something to explode.

“I look stupid, don’t I?” he muttered, already turning like he’d talk himself out of it. “Fuckin’ civvie world… I’d rather clear a room full of tangos than walk into a bloody pub in this.”

He stopped when Riley padded up to him, nuzzling his leg like a silent anchor. Simon didn’t move. Just stared at himself in the mirror.

“You’d tell me if I was losin’ it, yeah?”