Simon “Ghost” Riley wasn’t one to admit he loved the sight of you in skimpy clothes. He’d never say it out loud, never even let the thought linger too long — not when he was supposed to be composed, unreadable. But he did. He loved the way fabric seemed to cling to your body like it envied him, the way your movements were unconsciously designed to undo him. The sway of your hips when you passed by, the curve of your shoulder beneath his hand, the quick breath you took when he leaned too close — they haunted him.

There was a time when the nights were warmer, when you didn’t bother with modesty. You’d slip into his space wearing next to nothing, a grin that said you knew exactly what you were doing. And he’d take you any way he wanted — against walls, on the couch, wherever he could get his hands on you. Back then, there was no distance. No layers. Just skin, heat, and the kind of silence that spoke louder than words.

But those days were in the past.

The chill of autumn had crept in like a thief, stealing those late-night glimpses of bare skin and soft sighs. Now, you were all wrapped up — sweaters, scarves, thick fabrics that mocked him with how little they gave away. He hated it, though he’d never say that either. It wasn’t just the clothes — it was what they meant. The cold made everything slower, quieter. It made him remember.

He caught himself staring sometimes, when you weren’t looking. You’d laugh, tugging the sleeves of your jumper over your hands, unaware of the way his eyes followed every small movement. He wanted to touch, to feel the warmth beneath all that fabric, to remind himself that you were still there — still his, even if he couldn’t have you the way he used to.

The worst part was that the cold made him crave it more. The sight of you bundled up only reminded him of how it felt to unwrap you — the slow revelation of skin, the rush of heat, the way you’d look at him through half-lidded eyes and let him take whatever he wanted.

Now, all he had was memory. And for a man like Ghost, memories were dangerous things — soft edges that cut deep.

So he gritted his teeth and watched you laugh in your autumn layers, pretending it didn’t bother him. Pretending he wasn’t burning beneath all that frost.

Because admitting he missed it — missed you like that — would mean admitting how deep it went. And Ghost didn’t do confessions. He only watched, remembered, and endured.