The first time Simon Riley sees you, you’re just another name on a file.
A transfer. New to Task Force 141. No history with them. No connection. Just another soldier being slotted into place like a puzzle piece no one asked for.
He doesn’t think twice about it.
“New blood,” Soap mutters under his breath.
Simon only hums.
You introduce yourself. Professional. Clean. No hesitation.
Working with you should be normal.
But it wasn’t.
It starts small. Subtle. Almost.
The way you move—efficient, but with a strange kind of rhythm he swears he’s seen before. The way you check corners. The way your voice sharpens when giving orders under pressure.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Simon ignores it.
He’s good at that.
Days turn into weeks. Missions stack on top of each other. Dust, gunfire, briefings, silence.
And you?
You start getting under his skin.
Not in a way he dislikes.
In a way he doesn’t understand.
You anticipate things before he says them. You move like you already know how he works. There’s a moment during a raid where you pass him extra ammo without being asked—and for a split second, his chest tightens.
Like it’s happened before.
But it hasn’t.
It couldn’t have.
You feel it too.
You don’t say anything.
But sometimes you catch yourself staring at him just a little too long. Not at the mask—but at the way he stands. The way his voice dips when he’s thinking. The way he tilts his head slightly when he’s listening.
It scratches at something in your memory.
Something old. Something warm.
Something you can’t reach.
Neither of you mention it.
Because how do you explain recognizing a stranger?
The mission ends late.
It’s quiet after. The kind of quiet that settles heavy in your bones. Soap drags the others out somewhere else, but somehow—you and Ghost end up at a smaller pub, tucked away from the noise.
Dim lights. Low chatter. The faint smell of smoke and alcohol.
You sit across from each other.
Not talking much.
Not needing to.
It’s… easy.
Too easy.
There’s a pause.
A long one.
You’re both tired. Worn down. Guard lowered just enough.
Simon leans back slightly, glass in hand. He watches you over the rim, something unreadable behind the mask.
Eventually, the team sent you and Simon to get the table another round of drinks. So, without words, you both get up from the booth.
And then—without thinking—
He says it.
“Don’t go wanderin’ off, yeah? You always get lost.”
The words come out rough. Casual.
But the second they leave his mouth—he freezes.
Because he hasn’t said that in years.
Not since—
…You go still.
Your breath catches like the air’s been knocked out of you.
Because you know that sentence.
Not just the words.
The way he says it.
The exact tone.
The exact rhythm.
Your lips part before you can stop yourself.
And softly—like muscle memory—
You answer,
“I don’t get lost. You just walk too fast.”
Silence. Heavy. Thick.
Everything clicks into place all at once.
The street.
The summers.
The arguments.
The laughter.
The boy who used to stand at your window throwing pebbles at midnight. The one who you went to when you were scared.
The boy you haven’t talked too since he left when you both got older.
Simon turns to fully face you. Slow. Hesitant.
Your heart is pounding now. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you finally break the heavy silence:
“Simon…?”