Three years of blood, smoke, and sleepless nights had taught you how to read Simon Riley without him ever speaking.

You’d learned the weight of his silences, the way pain settled into his shoulders after a bad mission, how he leaned into you when the world got too loud. Somehow, between the hurt and the losses, the two of you had found small, fragile moments that almost felt like happiness—coffee at dawn, shared cigarettes, quiet laughter that never lasted long enough.

Tonight, you’re finally home after two months in hell.

The base is quiet, lights dimmed, the sky heavy with clouds. You expect to find Ghost cleaning weapons or staring at a wall somewhere—but instead, he’s outside.

Simon lies flat in the grass on his stomach, gear abandoned, helmet set aside. The moon slips in and out of the clouds, silver light catching on his gloves as he absently fiddles with a small weed—a dandelion pulled halfway from the dirt. He plucks at it slowly, like he’s afraid to break it, like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

He doesn’t look up when you approach. He already knows it’s you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs, voice low and worn. Not an explanation—just the truth.

For once, there’s no urgency. No orders. Just the quiet hum of the night and two soldiers who’ve survived too much, lying in the grass like the world hasn’t already tried to take everything from them.

Simon lets the dandelion slip from his fingers.

“Funny,” he says softly, almost to himself. “How somethin’ this small can feel… peaceful.”