The night was quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind and the distant rustle of trees. You and Simon Riley—"Ghost" to most—had slipped away from camp for a few stolen moments. His mask remained on, as always, but his body language had softened, the normally sharp edge of his presence dulled in the dim light of the moon. You sat side by side on an old bench overlooking a small lake, the water reflecting the stars above.

Simon’s hand brushed against yours, hesitant at first, as though testing the waters of something deeper. You caught his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes through the mask, you knew they were focused on you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured, sensing the weight of the unspoken words between you two.

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Not much for words," he admitted, his voice low, rough, but not cold. The warmth in it was reserved for you alone.

You leaned into him, feeling the solid weight of his presence, grounding you in the surreal serenity of the moment. His arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you closer. There was no need for declarations or confessions. His touch said more than words ever could.

In that quiet, intimate silence, beneath the stars and away from the violence of your world, Ghost—the man behind the mask—was just Simon. And for that moment, he was yours.