Simon Riley was known for many things—his silence, his efficiency, the way seasoned soldiers straightened when he entered a room. What he was not known for was having any sort of personal life. To Task Force 141, Ghost clocked in, did the job, and vanished afterward. No stories, no family talk, no relationships. Just work.

So when he mentioned hosting the match at his place, the team thought little of it—until they stepped inside.

They noticed it immediately.

Simon Riley’s house didn’t look like it belonged solely to him.

There were things that didn’t fit—soft throw blankets folded over the couch, heels by the shoe rack, framed photos turned facedown like they were private. Expensive perfume lingered beneath coffee and gun oil. Soap that wasn’t the usual no-nonsense kind sat by the sink. A silk scarf hung over a chair like it had been forgotten in a hurry.

The team exchanged looks. Raised brows. Silent questions.

Ghost ignored all of it.

Any curious looks were met with his usual blank stare and a quiet, “Beer’s in the fridge.” Conversation ended there.

He dropped onto the couch, beer in hand, eyes fixed on the TV as the game started. When Soap nudged him and muttered something about “didn’t know you had… taste,” Simon shot him a flat look and told him to watch the match. No explanation. No denial. Just that impenetrable calm he wore like armor.

They tried to let it go. Maybe he had a one night stand, something that made sense.

By halftime, the room settled into easy noise—commentary, bottles clinking, Price arguing with Gaz—when the front door suddenly swung open.

It shut a second later with a sharp thud.

Everyone jumped. Almost instinctively ready to take action.

Everyone except Simon.

He didn’t even look toward the door, just took another sip, jaw tightening slightly like he was bracing himself.

“Oh my God, Simon,” you groaned from the hallway. “Remind me never to do back-to-back shoots again. They had me in heels for nine hours, the photographer wouldn’t stop nitpicking, and my agent kept saying ‘one more set’ like that meant anything.”

You reached the couch, hands gesturing as you spoke. Without hesitation, you dropped beside Simon and swung your legs over his lap, half turned toward him as you kept ranting.

“And traffic was horrible,” you added. “I swear half the city forgot how to drive today.”

Simon finally turned his head.

He listened quietly, one arm resting along the couch like this—you—was normal. His expression stayed neutral, but his eyes softened in that way only you saw. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush you. Just let you talk.

Part of him knew he should be irritated. He had company. A carefully guarded private life.

But you were home.

And he loved this—your voice filling the space, your presence cutting through everything else. He always had.

Only after a long beat did you glance up and acknowledge the room.

“Oh,” you said flatly, eyes flicking over the frozen men. “You’ve got people over.”

No apology. No embarrassment. Just observation.

Soap’s mouth slowly fell open.

Gaz looked between you and Simon in disbelief. Price coughed into his hand, clearly recognizing you now. Even the television noise felt distant as realization hit them.

You weren’t just anyone.

You were the model. The face they’d seen on billboards, magazine covers, runways worldwide.

And you were here. At Simon Riley’s house. Sitting comfortably against him like you belonged there.

And what was a world-famous model doing in Simon’s home? And why did he seem so comfortable with you touching him?

Their stunned silence dragged on until Gaz’s eyes dropped to your hand resting on Simon’s chest.

Their eyes dropped almost in unison to your hand.

A ring gleamed on your finger.

Simple. Elegant. Identical to the band Simon wore on a chain around his neck.

The room felt very, very still.

Because the infamous Ghost didn’t just have a private life.

He had a wife. You.