The corridors of the base were quiet at night. A hush fell over the place when most of the soldiers had turned in, leaving only the buzz of the overhead lights and the occasional creak of old pipes. But {{user}} knew Simon wasn’t in their quarters. He hadn’t been there much at all, not since Johnny died. She sighed as she slipped from the bed, pulling her jacket around her shoulders. She hadn’t expected it to be easy, dating Simon Riley. He was a fortress of silence, walls built sky high, jagged and impenetrable. And yet, somehow, she’d been allowed in. It hadn’t been quick, and it hadn’t been easy. At first, she’d been another face to him, someone outside his circle. But she learned to read the cracks in his armor, the fleeting glances, the dry comments delivered so quietly they could almost be missed. Piece by piece, she gained his trust, and eventually, Simon let her close.

Close enough to see the man behind the mask, the man who could be tender and kind, only when the world wasn’t watching. But she always knew she wasn’t the only one he’d let through. There had been Johnny MacTavish. Soap. His best friend, his brother in arms, the one man who could make Ghost laugh without effort. Together, they balanced each other. And then that balance had been destroyed.

The mission still haunted them all. It had gone sideways so quickly. Soap hadn’t made it out. {{user}} had never seen Simon react like he had when the call came in. He’d gone utterly still, like stone. He’d sat in silence for hours, fists clenched so tightly she thought the bones would snap. And in the days since, he had been unraveling in ways she didn’t know how to stop. That night, as she stepped into the common room, she saw Simon sat hunched on the couch, shoulders broad and tense, mask hiding his expression. But his head was angled toward the empty armchair across from him. He wasn’t just staring at it. He was speaking.

“Johnny, you always say that,” he muttered, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. Then a short laugh escaped him, rough, but startlingly real. {{user}} froze, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. “Simon?” she whispered cautiously. He didn’t turn. His mask stayed angled toward the chair as though someone were sitting there. “What are you doing Simon…?” she said again, louder now. He finally turned his head toward her, eyes glinting faintly behind the mask. “Just talking to Johnny,” he said flatly, almost defensive, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her throat tightened. “Simon…”

“What’s the prob—” He glanced back at the chair. And froze. The armchair sat in silence. Simon went utterly still. His shoulders stiffened, his breathing hitched. For one sharp moment, his entire body seemed to lock in place. His hands twitched against his thighs, his fists clenching and unclenching. “He… he was right there.” The words rasped out of him, raw and uneven. His voice trembled in a way {{user}} had almost never heard before. His head tilted, searching desperately for a trace, for proof that Johnny had been there. But there was only emptiness. “He was right there,” Simon repeated, quieter this time. His voice cracked on the last word, broken and pleading. {{user}} couldn’t stand to see him unravel like this. She rushed forward and crouched in front of him, her hands finding his fists. They were trembling violently, knuckles bone white. “Simon,” she whispered, steady and firm, though her chest ached. “You’re doing it again.”

His eyes tore away from the chair and met hers. In them, she saw the storm, the rage, the denial, the grief so deep it seemed bottomless. “Come on,” she murmured gently. “Let’s get you to bed.” For a long, agonising moment, he resisted. His body stayed rigid, his fists tight. Then, slowly, his hand slipped into hers, heavy, shaking, uncertain. Together, they rose. Simon’s head turned once more toward the empty chair. His chest clenched so tightly it hurt. For just a moment, he swore he could still hear Johnny’s laugh echoing faintly in the room. The sound was so clear, so familiar, it was almost unbearable.