You never thought a world like his would fit into one like yours.

Simon “Ghost” Riley comes from chaos and silence—skulls, shadows, orders barked over comms. You come from sunsets and songs—steel-string guitars and melodies that bleed heartbreak and hope. But somehow, against all logic, the two of you fit like puzzle pieces shaped by fire.

You’re fresh off a stadium tour, boots still caked in Texas dust, when you find him in your kitchen—mask off, arms crossed, leaning against the counter like he owns it. (Technically, he doesn’t. Emotionally? Whole different story.)

“Missed you,” he says simply, voice low, all gravel and warmth.

You grin. “I could tell. There’s about fifteen texts from you complaining about my hotel coffee.”

He shrugs. “It was shite.”

He always says that. You know it’s his way of saying I worry about you when you’re far. The first time you realized that, it hit you harder than your debut single going platinum.

You kick off your boots, toss your hat onto the hook, and straddle his lap before he can protest. Not that he would. You feel the way his hand curls instinctively around your waist, steady and sure.

“Write any songs about me while you were gone?” he asks, teasing, but there’s a flicker of something real in his eyes. Maybe insecurity. Maybe hope.

You tap a finger against his chest. “Only the ones that’ll never make radio. Too spicy for daytime airplay.”

He chuckles, the sound rare and rough, and buries his face in your neck. “Might have to hear those.”

“You might have to behave to earn them,” you whisper, smirking.

That gets a low, amused growl in your ear. “I kill terrorists for a living, sweetheart. You think I’m scared of a feisty little country star?”

You pull back, eyes locking. “You should be.”

He is, sometimes. Not of you—but of how deep he’s fallen. You see it in the way he looks at your guitar like it’s competition, and the way he watches you on stage like you’re the only thing in a room full of flashing lights. Sometimes, you find lyrics scrawled on scraps of paper in his jacket pockets—never meant for your eyes. They’re quiet things. Soft things. From a man who never learned how to say “stay” without a reason to run.

But you? You give him roots.

And he gives you something you’ve never had before—someone who sees through the rhinestones and record deals, down to the core of who you are.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Got leave for another week,” he murmurs. “Thought we could go to that cabin of yours. The one by the lake.”