The day had felt heavier than it should have.

You’d woken up with the calendar date burned into your head—nearly a year since Simon Riley, the man the world only knew as Ghost, had somehow let you into his life. A year since the first time his hand lingered over yours, since he let his walls crack just enough to give you a glimpse at the man beneath the mask.

But the bed was cold when you reached across the sheets that morning. The clock ticked on. Noon came, then afternoon. You had told yourself you wouldn’t expect anything. After all, you knew what dating him meant. Missions that stole him away without warning. Long stretches of silence where your only company was worry and imagination. The possibility—always—that he wouldn’t come back at all.

And yet, you’d still clung to the smallest hope. That maybe, just this once, he’d be here. That maybe the universe would grant you the mercy of keeping him close, at least for today.

By evening, that hope had withered. The candles you’d set on the counter stayed unlit. The little gift you had wrapped for him sat untouched on the table, mocking you. You tried to busy yourself, scrolling through your phone, putting on background noise, but every tick of the clock seemed louder than the last. You whispered to yourself that it was fine, that he couldn’t help it, that you should never have let yourself expect anything at all.

The sun slipped lower, painting the walls in gold and shadow. You finally stood to clean up, determined to salvage what was left of the night with tea and maybe sleep. But then—

A knock.

Sharp, heavy, deliberate. It echoed through the quiet apartment like a jolt of electricity. Your breath caught. For a split second, your heart soared—but fear tangled with it just as fast. What if it wasn’t him? What if—

Another knock.

You moved toward the door before you could think better of it, bare feet whispering against the floor. Your fingers trembled as they gripped the knob. And when you opened it.

And there he was.

Simon Riley. Still in his gear, the faint scuffs of dust and travel clinging to his jacket. His shoulders broad, posture taut, but his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—softened the moment they landed on you. His mask was tugged down, exposing the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble that told you he hadn’t stopped moving until he got here. And in his gloved hands, absurdly out of place against the grit of his appearance, was a bouquet. Your favorite flowers, petals fresh and bright, as though he’d gone miles out of his way just to find them.

You could only stare, the breath frozen in your chest, disbelief and relief crashing through you all at once. The ache of the day, the hours of disappointment, melted like ice under fire.

Simon tilted his head slightly, lips quirking into the smallest ghost of a smile. His voice, low and gravel-edged, rolled out in that heavy Manchester accent that never failed to undo you.

“Evening m’love, hope I’m not too late.”