Simon Riley never had much luck in the love department—never expected to, either. Hard to blame anyone who took one look at a man built like he’d been carved out of concrete and wrapped in a skull-patterned balaclava and decided to walk the other way. Even out of uniform, there was something about him that broadcast danger: the thick shoulders that strained every shirt he owned, the rigid way he held himself, the quiet intensity in his eyes that no amount of blinking could soften.

A soldier with too much blood on his hands. Too much history weighing down his spine. Emotional baggage lined up behind him like an airport carousel—endless, loud, and nobody’s responsibility but his own.

The lads at 141 meant well, but hell, they didn’t make it easier.

“You could try talking to them, Lt. Can’t deny they might run when they see you, though.”

Gaz had laughed as he clapped a heavy hand to Simon’s shoulder. Soap cackled beside him, already halfway through some joke that would’ve been cruel if it weren’t so typical.

That was the night Simon downloaded Affinity.

He wasn’t proud of it. He’d set up the profile, chose a handful of pictures that hid more than they showed—shots of him younger, or angled to obscure the harsh lines age and war had carved into him. No mask, but no face either. No job description besides something vague, civilian-sounding. Not lying—just omitting. He told himself it was harmless.

Then he matched with {{user}}.

She was nothing like him. Warm. Open. Her profile full of bright smiles, hobbies, job details, and an endless parade of her cat who looked like it could win Simon over faster than any human could. She talked easily, typed with a kind of light Simon had never had in his life. And somehow, despite everything, she liked talking to him too.

Months passed. Months where her voice messages became the thing he looked forward to more than sleep. Months where he almost forgot there were truths he hadn’t told her.

Then she asked to meet.

Simon had stalled—God, he’d stalled. Claimed missions, travel, unpredictable schedules. She waited every time, patient as ever, and that only made the guilt worse. Eventually, he couldn’t keep pushing her away. He agreed to pick her up from the airport.

Now here he stood—Simon “Ghost” Riley, Lieutenant of Task Force 141—trying to blend into an airport like he wasn’t built to kick down doors. He’d forced himself into black jeans and a plain, worn military hoodie, the closest thing he owned to casual wear. Without the balaclava, the air felt too cold on his scarred skin, his jaw tense enough to crack. He crossed his arms to keep his hands from fidgeting, boots planted firmly like he was bracing for enemy contact instead of…this.

His heart hadn’t hammered like this even under gunfire.

People streamed out from arrivals—families, couples, strangers dragging their luggage with practiced misery. Simon scanned each face, pulse thudding. Then he saw her.

{{user}}.

Exactly as her pictures, but somehow more—real, warm, bright against the harsh airport lighting. She moved with a hesitant excitement, eyes searching the crowd.

And Simon felt something he almost didn’t recognize.

Fear.

Not fear of her—fear of losing her. Fear that she’d take one look at him, at the real him, and realize he wasn’t the man she’d spent months talking to.