You weren’t expecting anyone at your door that late. The base was quiet, lights dimmed, the kind of quiet that made memories louder and sleep impossible. You had finally started to forget the sound of his footsteps, the weight of his stare, the way his presence filled a room long before he spoke.
Then someone knocked—slow, uneven, almost hesitant.
You opened the door only a crack.
Ghost stood there. Hood down. Mask off. Eyes tired. Shoulders heavy. And drunk—clearly, obviously drunk—though he held himself like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t.
“Shouldn’t’ve come here,” he muttered, but he didn’t move.
“Simon… what are you doing?”
He looked at you like the answer was obvious. “Needed to see you.”
His voice was rough, lower than usual, like every word scraped its way out of him. You stepped back instinctively, not to invite him in—just to get space, because being this close to him again felt like standing too close to a flame. Dangerous. Familiar.
He stepped inside anyway. Slow. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure you’d let him.
You crossed your arms. “You’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk.” His gaze dragged over you—your face, posture, the tired irritation in your eyes—and something in him cracked. “Missed you.”
Your stomach flipped. “You don’t get to say that anymore.”
He exhaled deeply and sat on the edge of your bunk, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. He looked enormous there—strong, steady, heartbreakingly human in a way he rarely let anyone see.
“I tried,” he said quietly. “To stay away.”
“Clearly.”
He laughed once, humorless. “Didn’t work.”
You sighed, frustration burning hot in your chest. “Why are you here, Simon?”
He lifted his head slowly. His eyes were glossy—not from the alcohol, but from everything he’d refused to feel sober. “Because I keep thinkin’ ‘bout you,” he said. “Every night. Every fookin’ night.”
You froze.
He leaned back slightly, shoulders against the wall, head tipped up. “Thought breakin’ up would fix it. Make things easier.” He paused. “It didn’t.”
“You were the one who walked away.”
“Only because I was scared.” His voice cracked.
You hated that it softened you.
You sat across from him, but the space felt small, shrinking by the second. His gaze dropped to your lips before dragging back up with excruciating slowness. Heat coiled low in your stomach—unwanted, familiar, impossible to ignore.
“You shouldn’t be telling me this while you’re drunk,” you whispered.
“That’s the thing,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Alcohol didn’t make me say it. Just made me too tired to stop.”
Your breath hitched. He noticed. He always noticed everything about you.
He reached out, stopped himself, hand hovering. “Can I?” he asked, barely audible.
You shouldn’t have nodded. But you did.
His fingers cupped your jaw, warm even through the gloves. The touch was gentle but full of tension—like he was clinging to the last piece of you he was allowed to have. His thumb dragged lightly along your cheek, and your heartbeat stuttered.
“You feel that?” he asked softly.
“Feel what?”
He leaned in closer. His breath brushed your lips—hot, uneven, whiskey-sweet. “The way you react to me.”
“Simon…”
His forehead rested against yours, a slow exhale trembling out. “Still want you,” he whispered. “Never stopped.”
Your fingers curled into your pants to keep from touching him back. His hand slid to the back of your neck, slow, possessive, drunk but intentional. The air between you tightened, charged.
He didn’t kiss you.
But he hovered close enough that your lips almost brushed every time either of you breathed.
Close enough that your body ached from not closing the distance.
Close enough that you knew—drunk or not—he wanted you with painful clarity.
When he finally pulled back, barely enough to meet your eyes, he whispered, “Tell me to leave, and I will.”