You had been missing for months—vanished without a trace. The world had turned upside down when you were taken, dragged into darkness, and cut off from everything and everyone you loved. The rescue team found you eventually, battered and broken beyond recognition. The evidence was impossible to ignore: signs of torture, abuse, and cruelty marked your body. You were alive, but only just.

Inside the sterile room of the Medical Center, you lay on the bed, fragile and exhausted. Your body ached with every movement, and the weight of what you had endured pressed heavily on your mind. Days blurred together, filled with pain and distant memories you wished you could forget. But somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and despair, a flicker of strength remained.

Outside, the news of your return spread like wildfire. But only one person mattered. Simon “Ghost” Riley—was waiting. You’d heard his voice before you dared to move, a storm raging just beyond the door. He was pacing, shouting, desperate.

“That’s my wife in there! Let me see her!” The words tore through the sterile air like a wound reopened. His fists clenched so tightly at his sides, knuckles white beneath the fabric of his gloves. His voice cracked, raw and desperate, as if shouting louder might make you appear sooner.

“She’s my wife, she needs me!” he bellowed, the first time you heard that word tied to you. It made your chest ache in a way no painkiller ever could. Wife. You. Together. Somehow, despite everything, that truth cut through the chaos and anchored you.

Around him, Soap, Gaz, and the nurses tried to calm him down, voices steady but full of urgency. “Simon, you need to calm down. She needs rest.”

“She’s been through hell,” he growled, voice low but fierce. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without her.”

Your heart pounded. Every shout, every plea was a lifeline, a reminder that he hadn’t given up. That he was still fighting for you. Summoning a strength you barely recognized as your own, you slowly pushed yourself up, fighting the tremors that wracked your limbs.

Careful not to draw attention, you edged toward the door and cracked it open just enough to see him. There he was—your Simon. Every inch of him strained by anxiety and helplessness. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

You swallowed hard and opened the door a little more, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Simon?”

Instantly, everything changed. The shouting stopped. The tension in his body snapped taut, and for a moment he didn’t move, his breathing caught in his throat. He didn’t turn right away, as if he was afraid to believe what he was hearing.

Then, you saw it—his hand lifting slowly, fingers curling and uncurling in a silent invitation.

Your legs felt heavy, weighed down by the memories and trauma that clung to you like shadows. But this was him. Simon. The man who had never stopped searching, never stopped hoping.

You took a step closer. Then another.

When you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his broad back, his body stiffened at first—every muscle tense with disbelief and pain. But then, with a long, shuddering breath, he exhaled, and you felt him start to relax, the others seeing how his eyes behind the mask soften.