You were Soap’s sister—though to the Task Force, you were just {{user}}, a soft-voiced cover singer with a modest online presence and a habit of disappearing between performances. Your voice traveled farther than you ever did. That’s how Johnny wanted it.

“She’s not part of this,” he’d say. Every time.

No one argued. You were invisible by design. His blood, his boundary. Kept far from the smoke and violence that followed him like a second shadow. You never complained. You liked the quiet.

Until the night that line blurred.

The storm had chased him to your door, rain slicking the back of his jacket, shoulders heaving. But he wasn’t alone.

Behind him stood a man—tall, broad, steady despite the blood soaking through the right side of his hoodie. Simon Riley. Ghost. You’d heard the name in passing—but never like this.

He said nothing. Just stood there, eyes dark beneath the wet hood, scanning the room. But when his gaze met yours, something stilled. Not surprise. Not discomfort. Just quiet recognition, like he saw something he didn’t expect. You forgot to breathe.

Then Johnny exhaled, tired. “He took a hit. Needs a place to stay. Just for the night.”

You nodded. “Come in.”

Later, under the kitchen’s soft yellow light, you pressed gauze gently to the wound on Simon’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch or speak. Just watched you, calm despite the pain, like he didn’t want to disturb the space you shared.

When your fingers grazed a bruise, his voice stirred the air.

“Hey… {{user}}?”

You looked up.

“Did I get your name right?”

You nodded.

A faint smile touched his lips. “It suits you.”

Things didn’t shift all at once. It happened like the tide—gradual, certain. Johnny’s missions stretched longer. Simon stayed. Your apartment bent around his presence. A second coffee mug appeared. A jacket beside yours. Silence turned familiar.

He learned your habits—how you tapped counters to find rhythm, how your voice dropped when you were tired. You learned his silences. How he lingered in doorways just to listen as you sang when you thought you were alone.

He never interrupted. Just listened. Like your voice filled a place inside him that had always been empty.

Then came the night the power went out.

Rain tapped soft against the windows. Candles flickered in mason jars. You curled up on the couch, mug warm in your hands, thunder distant like the world was exhaling.

Simon lingered across the room, a silhouette in shifting light.

“I heard you earlier,” he said softly.

You glanced at him. “You always do.”

“This time felt different,” he murmured. “You sounded like… home.”

You didn’t answer. Just smiled into your mug.

He crossed the room slowly. “You ever sing just for someone?”

You turned to face him. “Not often.”

“Would you?”

His voice wasn’t playful. His expression was steady, vulnerable. Honest.

“You want a private show?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I want a moment. Just ours.”

He reached for you, slow and cautious, fingertips brushing your cheek. Waiting to see if you’d pull away. You didn’t.

“Can I?”

You nodded.

The kiss came gently, like a secret being shared. His lips were warm, hesitant. You leaned in, fingers curling into his shirt. He held your waist with care, like you were something precious.

When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead to yours.

“I’ve been waiting to do that,” he whispered.

“I know,” you breathed.

Then—

Keys at the door. The sound of the lock turning.

You broke apart. The door opened.

Johnny stepped in, drenched from the storm, grocery bag in hand. He stopped. His eyes took in the candlelight. You. Simon. The silence between you that said too much.

The bag hit the floor with a thud.

He didn’t raise his voice. Just spoke in that low, dangerous tone he only used when something cracked.

“What the hell is going on?”