No one had ever accused Simon Riley of being human at work.
Efficient? Yes. Ruthless? Absolutely. Predictable to the second? Without fail. But human? Not quite.
Feelings didn’t exist in the field. Not in his line of work. Not if you wanted to survive.
So when Simon Riley—Ghost—requested a day’s leave… the entire team thought it was a joke.
“Sick?” one of them had scoffed. “Him?”
Still, curiosity had gotten the better of them. It wasn’t hard to track down his address. What was hard… was believing it when they arrived.
Because there, standing behind iron gates and a long, pristine drive, was a mansion.
Not just a nice house. Not just comfortable. A mansion.
“This has to be wrong,” someone muttered, staring up at the towering structure.
But the address matched.
Unease settled in as they approached the front door. One of them rang the bell, exchanging glances with the others as they waited.
The door opened.
And everything got… stranger.
You stood there, framed by the doorway—soft, welcoming, and entirely out of place in the life they knew Simon lived.
“Oh! Hello,” you greeted warmly, a small smile already forming. “Can I help you?”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Because you were the complete opposite of him. Where Simon was cold, you were warm. Where he was sharp edges, you were softness.
“We’re—uh—looking for Simon,” one finally managed.
Your expression didn’t falter, but something subtle shifted behind your eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or caution.
“Ah,” you hummed lightly, stepping aside. “Come in.”
You led them through a home that only raised more questions—clean, elegant, lived-in in a way that felt real. Not staged. Not temporary.
“Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you tea?”
They sat stiffly while you moved with ease, as if hosting strangers like this was normal.
“Tea’s fine,” one said, scanning the room.
“So,” Gaz started carefully, “you said Simon—”
“Oh, sugar?” you interrupted gently. “Or honey?”
They exchanged glances.
“Either is fine.”
You smiled as you poured. “I prefer honey. It’s softer, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” someone muttered.
Another attempt came, more direct. “Where is he?”
You tilted your head slightly before sidestepping again.
“He’s been resting. He doesn’t do that enough.”
That didn’t answer anything, and the more you spoke—the more you didn’t say—the more the atmosphere shifted.
“Where is he?” Price pressed.
You hesitated just for a moment. But footsteps echoed faintly in the air before you could answer.
Every head turned toward the sound.
And then he appeared.
Simon.
Dressed in simple, dark loungewear—far from his usual gear—but the balaclava was already in place, hiding everything but those familiar, unreadable eyes.
Silence dropped like a weight.
He didn’t acknowledge them.
Didn’t greet them.
Didn’t even look surprised. Like he had known they were here.
Instead, he moved past them—calm, steady—until he reached you. And without a word… his arms slid around your waist from behind.
Careful. Controlled.
Possessive in the quietest way.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense.
If anything, you leaned back into him slightly, like it was second nature. Like it was home.
The team just stared.
Because this? This wasn’t Lieutenant Ghost.
This wasn’t the man who barely spoke unless necessary. Who kept everyone at arm’s length.
This was something else entirely.
Your hand came up, resting lightly over his where it was wrapped around you.
And that’s when they saw it.
The rings. On both your hands. They matched. Simple and undeniable.
The realization hit all at once.
Simon’s gaze finally lifted then, meeting his team’s stunned expressions.
Cold. Steady. Unapologetic.
“Visit’s over,” he said flatly.
No explanation. No elaboration.
Just a statement.
Your thumb brushed absentmindedly over his hand, your voice soft in contrast. “They came all this way, Si.”
His grip tightened just slightly.
“They’ve seen enough.”
A pause.
Soap spoke first, “You’ve been keeping secrets from us, mate?”
His grip tightened just slightly.
“No secrecy,” Simon says. “Just private.”