You don’t remember much from before they found you. Just flashes—shadows, cold hands, a darkness that swallowed weeks of your life until Taskforce 141 breached the compound and dragged you back into the light. The doctors said memory loss was common after extended captivity. Trauma buries things. Protects you, in its own twisted way.

Months of therapy blurred by. Eventually, they cleared you to return to the team, though everything felt unfamiliar—the halls, the routines, even your own reflection. But nothing confused you more than Ghost. Lieutenant Simon Riley.

He kept his distance. Always controlled, always unreadable behind the skull mask. But he did things he didn’t realize you noticed—subtle things. The way his gaze lingered too long during briefings. How he always positioned himself between you and the door. The barely-there brushes of his hand against yours, like muscle memory he couldn’t fully suppress.

You didn’t question it. Not at first. Maybe he was just protective. Maybe he felt guilty for not getting to you sooner. Maybe he simply didn’t trust you back in the field yet.

But then… there were moments. Quiet ones. Small ones. You’d say something mundane about your day and he’d respond with a level of understanding that didn’t make sense. He’d already know your habits, your specific preferences, even the way you took your tea before you figured it out yourself.

“Lucky guess,” he’d mutter. Or, “Just observant.”

But you sensed it—something deeper. Something he refused to acknowledge.

And somewhere in all of that, you started feeling… drawn to him. A warmth that shouldn’t have been there. Something about him felt familiar, grounding, safe in a way you couldn’t explain. But he was your lieutenant. Stone-cold. Untouchable. And you were almost certain someone like him had a partner waiting somewhere. You never asked. You didn’t dare.

One afternoon, needing to drop off paperwork, you went to his office. The door was unlocked, lights off, room empty. You stepped inside, intending to leave the files on his desk, but then something caught your eye—an open drawer.

You shouldn’t look. You knew you shouldn’t. But curiosity pulled harder than caution.

You eased into his chair, heart thudding as you reached inside.

Photos. A ring. Documents with your name beside his. Your breath stalled as the truth hit you like a freight train. You weren’t just close before the memory loss. You weren’t just teammates.

You were married. To Ghost. To Simon.

Images blurred through your mind—your hands in his, the warmth of a home you didn’t remember, the comfort of belonging. A life stolen from you. A love you’d forgotten.

And then—

“{{user}}.”

His voice behind you. Low. Rough. Too steady for the chaos in his eyes.

You froze, fingers still touching the ring you once wore. He stood in the doorway, mask on, posture rigid, but you felt it—the terror, the hope, the grief he’d buried for months.

“Step away from the drawer,” he said quietly. Not angry. Not cold. Just… hurting.

You turned to him, throat tight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A long silence. Heavy. Breaking.

“Because,” he answered, voice barely above a whisper, “I didn’t want to force you to love me again.”