A quiet, candle-lit kitchen after a power outage — rain pounding the windows.

You stood at the counter, trying to light the last candle with shaky hands. The storm outside roared like a beast, wind howling, thunder cracking the sky open. Rook was curled up beneath the table, uneasy.

The door creaked open.

Water pooled in the doorway as Simon stepped inside — soaked to the bone, balaclava gone, eyes dark under the flickering candlelight. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched tight. He looked like he’d been through hell. His knuckles were scraped, blood trailing down his forearm.

“Simon?” you whispered, heart pounding. You rushed over. “You’re hurt—”

“I’m fine.” His voice was gravel, sharp — but it broke halfway.

You didn’t stop. You reached up, cradling his face with both hands. His breath caught.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back,” you whispered, tears rising. “I heard the sirens—I waited—”

He didn’t speak. He just pulled you in so hard you almost lost your balance, burying his face into your neck, arms like iron around you. And then you felt it — his shoulders trembling. Simon Riley, the Ghost, was shaking in your arms.

“You’re my home, {{user}} ” he rasped. “I can’t lose that. I can’t lose you.”

You cupped the back of his head, whispering gently, over and over, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”