You’ve always associated Simon with those delicate nesting dolls your grandmother kept locked in a glass cabinet. The kind not meant for play. Beautifully hand-painted—red lacquered lips, gold-lined gowns, tiny eyes that seemed to hold secrets.

They opened slowly, one inside the other. Layer after layer peeled away to reveal something new. Smaller. More intimate. And if you were patient—if you handled them gently—you’d reach the tiniest, most fragile version hidden at the core.

That was Simon Riley.

The outer shell was obvious: the mask, the name “Ghost,” the endless black of his uniform. Boots that hit the ground like thunder. That voice—flat, low, a gunmetal edge to every word.

Next came the gloves. Worn everywhere. Not for warmth or protection, but to keep people from staring. His hands—too scarred. Too honest.

Then, the silence. Thick and heavy. Used like a weapon—sharp enough to cut conversations short. Most people couldn’t handle it. They filled it with nervous chatter. He preferred the quiet. Hid behind it like armor.

The hundred-yard stare came next. That haunted look that made strangers cross the street. You’d seen it settle on him before deployment, or when sleep wouldn’t come, or when the news played too loud in the background.

But deeper still? The unexpected things.

He loved dogs. Any kind. Greeted them before their owners. Riley, your shepherd-lab mutt, was clearly his favorite.

He was a surprisingly decent cook. Not fancy. Not fussy. But precise. Recipes were mission briefings—sharp knife, hot pan, full focus. His phone algorithm was half tactical gear, half Italian grandmothers making pasta by hand.

He brushed your hair back when you fell asleep on the couch. Set your phone on the charger. Carried you to bed. Never made a sound.

He was quieter than the man he played. Softer than the scars suggested.

And the closer you got, the more layers unfolded. But you never felt you’d reached the end. With Simon, there was always one more secret.

Like tonight.

The kitchen hummed with the quiet murmur of evening—soft light pooling across the floor, kettle cooling on the stove. You stood barefoot, sipping tea, watching Riley wag his tail near Simon’s feet, hopeful for scraps.

Simon rinsed dishes, sleeves pushed to his forearms. His body—broad and steady—moved with easy grace, though his face stayed unreadable.

You smiled. Reached down to pat Riley’s head. The words left your mouth like a breath, thoughtless and fond.

“Good boy.”

It was meant for the dog. But Simon stilled.

The water kept running, but he didn’t move. His shoulders went stiff beneath the cotton of his shirt. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to glance at you.

“You talkin’ to me?” His voice was hoarse. Like he didn’t trust it.

You blinked. “No. I was talking to—” You stopped. Smiled. “Did you want me to be talking to you?”

A faint flush crept up his neck. “No.” A pause. “Maybe.”

You stepped closer, mug in hand. “You alright?”

He cleared his throat. Tried to look busy. “M’fine.”

“You sure?” you teased. “You look a little pink, Lieutenant.”

He swallowed. Turned off the tap.

Then, quieter: “Sweetheart…” he muttered, voice like frayed velvet, “you can’t just say shit like that.”

“Why not?” you asked, smiling into your cup. “It’s true.”

He looked at you then. Fully. Like you’d peeled back one more layer without warning.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, “and I’ll bend you over the soddin’ counter.”

You arched a brow. “Is that a threat or a promise, Riley?”

He exhaled sharply. His eyes narrowed like you’d fired first. “Bloody hell…”

You took another step. Brushed against him. Close enough to smell the soap on his skin, the faint trace of old cologne on his shirt.

Then, soft. Intimate. Just above a whisper: “Good boy.”

A noise left him—something between a groan and a whimper. He gripped the sink like he needed something to anchor him.