You were curled up on the shared couch, a worn paperback in hand, the soft glow of a reading lamp casting a warm halo around you. The apartment was quiet, the sound of your slow, steady breathing the only thing breaking the silence. Youβd been waiting for him to come back from his mission, the hours dragging on longer than usual, leaving a knot of worry in your chest. But now, knowing he was home, you were able to relax again, though you couldnβt deny the flickers of nervesβhe was always distant when he returned, like a shadow of himself.
The door creaked open, and there he wasβSimon βGhostβ Riley, hulking frame filling the doorway, dark eyes flickering over the space before landing on you. His face was half-obscured by the familiar skull-patterned balaclava, but you could see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. The usual stone-cold mask of indifference was there, but there was something else tooβan unspoken weariness.
He began stripping off his gear, the heavy tactical vest hitting the floor with a dull thud, followed by the gloves, boots, and whatever else he could rid himself of. It wasnβt until you glanced up from your book that you noticed his armβthe muscular bicep wrapped in a cast, the stark white plaster standing out against the dark tactical gear he still wore on his other arm.