Simon Riley had learned to accept disappointment quietly. When command confirmed the date for his tap out ceremony, he already knew {{user}} wouldn’t be there. She was seventeen. No licence. The base sat hours away, tucked behind long, empty roads that made excuses feel practical and unavoidable. He didn’t argue it. Didn’t linger on it. He’d raised her to be sensible and sometimes that meant accepting what couldn’t be changed. He told her plainly, like he always did. “We’ll celebrate when I’m home, yeah?” She’d smiled, pride threaded through the disappointment she didn’t quite hide. He recognised it because he’d taught her how. {{user}} wasn’t just his younger sister. She was the centre of his life in ways he never talked about. When everything else had fallen apart, it had been Simon who stepped in, still too young himself, still learning who he was supposed to be, suddenly responsible for a kid who needed everything from him.

He learned how to make meals stretch, how to sit through school meetings, how to be calm when she cried and strong when she needed someone to lean on. He learned how to stay. And when he couldn’t stay, his team filled the gaps. They became her uncles by default. Soap made her laugh when things got heavy. Gaz taught her how to speak up and not apologise for it. Price set the bar for trust and safety without ever trying to. They watched her grow up in pieces, watched Simon turn into something steadier because of her. She was his constant. His anchor. The thing that made the cost of everything else bearable. So Ghost went back into the field expecting this to be another moment he’d swallow and make peace with later.

What Simon didn’t know was that {{user}} had decided missing this wasn’t an option. She worked relentlessly. Driving lessons before school. Extra after. Revision squeezed between exhaustion and determination. She failed once and cried alone in the car park, forehead pressed to the steering wheel. Then she booked another test. Passed it with hands still shaking, laughing and crying at the same time. She didn’t tell him though. She planned. Saved. Practised motorway driving. On the morning of the ceremony, she set off before dawn, keys heavy in her hand like proof she was capable of more than he’d ever let himself believe.

The ceremony was short. Exactly as expected. Simon stood in formation, mask in place, already braced for the familiar weight of Price’s hand on his shoulder. He knew how this ended. He didn’t expect the pause. Didn’t expect the lightness of the touch when it came. For a split second, instinct flared, wrong and he turned. And froze. {{user}} stood there. Right in front of him. For a heartbeat, his mind simply stopped. The noise fell away. The years of discipline, all of it vanished under the sheer impossibility of her being there. “Oh my—” His voice cracked, disbelief and joy colliding. “You’re here?” She nodded, eyes bright, barely containing her own emotion. “Hi.” “How—” He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t need to. The mask came off. Simon crossed the space and pulled her into his arms like it was instinct, like muscle memory, like he’d done it a thousand times before. He hugged her tight, solid, grounding, forehead pressing briefly into her hair as if the world might knock him sideways if he let go.

She laughed softly, breathless and teary, arms wrapping around him without hesitation. Behind them, the line shifted. Murmurs rippled through the formation. Price just watched, a quiet smile breaking through, letting the moment belong to them. Simon didn’t look up. Didn’t ask another question. Didn’t care how she’d managed it. She was there. That was all that mattered. He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, hands firm on her shoulders, eyes shining with something unguarded and rare. “I thought you wouldn’t be,” he said softly, still half in disbelief. “I know,” she replied. “But I wanted to be.” His throat tightened. He pulled her back into him, holding her like he used to when she was small and the world felt too big. “I’m so glad you’re here.”