You never thought you’d find something like love here—steel walls, barking orders, the constant hum of helicopters. But then you met Simon Riley.

At first, he was just “Ghost”—quiet, masked, all business. But over time, you noticed the little things: how he always had your back, the silent check-ins, the way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

You kept up with him, matched his sarcasm, trusted him without saying a word. Somewhere in the chaos, something unspoken began to grow. It wasn’t loud or fast—it was steady. A brush of fingers, a shared silence, his forehead resting against yours before a mission.

The first time you saw his face, it wasn’t some big reveal. He pulled off the mask because it was soaked with rain. You just handed him a towel and said, “You look less terrifying than I expected.” He chuckled—and didn’t put the mask back on right away.

One night, by a dying campfire, your body aching and your mind worn thin, he sat beside you—close enough to feel, you asked, “You ever think we’re just ghosts too?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Sometimes. But you make me feel… human again.”

That was the moment it clicked. Not the kiss in the truck. Not when he held you after it all went sideways. But then—when he let you see him.

Another night, after another op, just the two of you on a rooftop under a star-streaked sky, he looked at you. His voice was rough, quiet.

“I hate everyone,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “But you… I hate everyone but you.”