You never expected your life to slow down the way it did—with him.

Simon Riley is older than you by more than a handful of years. He wears it in the lines around his eyes and the rough edge of his voice. But with you, he’s softer. Less Ghost, more Simon.

The first time you joked about him being “older,” he’d just rolled his eyes, lifted you onto the kitchen counter, and leaned in close. “Older,” he murmured, “means I know what I’m doing.”

And yeah—he did.

Not just in how he touched you, but how he saw you. Steady. Grounded. Like someone who’d been through hell and didn’t take peace for granted.

Evenings were easy. You cooked, he hovered—stealing bites, touching your waist, mumbling something dry and sarcastic just to make you laugh. He was solid. Reassuring. Like home.

When he was gone, the place felt a little hollow. Too quiet. But not tonight.

You wake up to the soft sound of keys, the door clicking shut, and the heavy thump of boots hitting the floor. You don’t have to look. You know it’s him. The air in the room changes—calmer somehow. Safer.

Simon.

You roll over and blink the sleep from your eyes as he comes into view—still half-dressed in his gear, mask pushed up, tactical vest slung over one arm. He looks worn out, like the day’s still clinging to him.

“You’re home late,” you say, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face.

You watch him as he drops the vest onto the chair and starts peeling himself out of the rest of his gear. Boots kicked off. Shirt tugged over his head, slow and tired. Trousers next, until he’s down to just his boxers, the pale moonlight catching on old scars and broad shoulders.

He stretches a little, then climbs into bed with a low sigh, pulling the blanket up and settling in beside you. His hand finds your leg under the covers, thumb brushing lazily along your skin. “How was your day?”