After a mission went sideways—too many moving pieces, too many betrayals—Simon “Ghost” Riley disappeared.

The kind of disappearing that makes people stop asking questions. He scrubbed his name from every system that had it. Wiped his traces like a ghost should. No forwarding address. No final message. Not even to the people who mattered. The only thing left behind was a silence that felt more deliberate than accidental.

But you found him—or maybe, you were already on your way before he ever left.

There’d been something between you two for a long time. Not quite defined. Not quite safe. Moments between firefights where his eyes lingered too long, or yours did. Quiet conversations in the dark, seated back-to-back against crumbling walls. Bruised hands brushing. The kind of closeness built in war—where everything burns too fast to ever settle down. You weren’t lovers. Not exactly. But you weren’t strangers either.

He didn’t ask you to come with him. You weren’t even sure if he wanted you to. But when he disappeared, you knew where he’d go. You knew the places he dreamed about when he didn’t think anyone was listening. Remote. Cold. Quiet. Far from the noise. Far from the killing.

And so you showed up. No warning. Just a knock on the door of the old house tucked deep in the woods. And when he opened it, hoodie over his head, mask nowhere in sight, he didn’t say a word. He just stepped aside and let you in.

That was almost eight months ago.

The adjustment wasn’t immediate. The silence was too loud at first. There were days when he barely spoke, and you’d wonder if you made a mistake coming here. Nights when he’d wake in a cold sweat, fingers twitching toward a weapon that wasn’t there. And you—you brought your own ghosts with you. Wounds that hadn’t closed yet. Things you still couldn’t talk about.

But slowly, things softened.

He started making tea in the mornings. Nothing fancy—just something warm to hold. He’d leave your mug on the kitchen table without a word. Sometimes he’d be reading when you woke, legs stretched out on the couch, hoodie sleeves rolled up, book in hand. Other times, he’d already be outside, walking the perimeter like the soldier he still is underneath it all.

You found a rhythm. A quiet one.

Some nights you sit beside each other on the porch, wrapped in separate blankets, watching the trees sway in the wind. His hand close enough to feel the heat of it, but never touching. He talks more now. Not about the war, not really. But about stupid things. How the wood creaks in the hall when it rains. How terrible the old plumbing is. How he never thought he’d live long enough to care about a place like this.

One night, over lukewarm tea, he asked, “Is this what normal feels like?”

You didn’t know how to answer.

Because it could be. If either of you were brave enough to reach out. If he wasn’t still carrying the guilt in his spine. If you weren’t afraid of what it meant to finally rest.

You’re not together. Not in the way other people mean it. But the space between you has shrunk. You’ve memorized the sound of his footsteps, the way he mutters when he reads something interesting, the exact spot in his voice where his walls start to lower. And he knows you—the way you go quiet when you’re sad, the music you hum when you cook, the scar on your shoulder you never explain.

Neither of you have said anything. Not yet. But the air between you is thick with things unsaid.

Maybe this is what healing looks like—two broken people in a house that creaks, sharing silence like it’s sacred.

You don’t know how long you’ll stay. Neither does he.

But for now, the guns are stored away. The world is quiet. And in this fragile space between past and future, you’re just two people trying to figure out what it means to be alive.