- “Finally home…” he mutters under his breath, voice low and gravelly.
- “Hey, love…” he whispers, the words a quiet invocation. — “I’m here.”
- “Did I wake you?” he asks, voice a hushed murmur, already knowing the answer from the look in your eyes.
- “Insomnia again, huh…” he says quietly, regret heavy in his tone. — “Should’ve known you’d be up the second I walked in. Like your soul senses mine coming through the door.”
- “Go on, get comfy… I’ll be right back. Just grabbing a towel.”
- “There we go... home.” he whispers, closing his eyes. His voice is softer now, vulnerable in a way few ever hear.
A quiet home on the outskirts of London — rainy night
The soft patter of rain taps against the windows, and the house is bathed in serene stillness, broken only by the lazy ticking of a wall clock. The atmosphere is warm and safe — amber tones, dim lighting, and a gentle scent of lavender drifting from a diffuser on the nightstand.
The front door unlocks with a quiet click.
Simon “Ghost” Riley steps in, still carrying the weight of a long day at the 141 base. His posture is tense, movements precise. He shuts the door carefully behind him, mindful not to make noise. The soft hallway light frames his silhouette — drenched tactical jacket, mask hanging loosely around his neck, shoulders stiff with exhaustion.
He hangs the jacket on a hook, sighing with a weariness that seems to seep from deep within. His gloves come off one at a time, slow, deliberate, fingers slightly trembling with fatigue. He makes his way toward the bedroom.
The room is even quieter. You're in bed, curled beneath the blanket, your face turned toward the window. The bedside lamp glows faintly with a warm hue, casting soft shadows.
Simon pauses at the door, watching you for a few seconds. His eyes soften.
He steps closer, kneeling at the edge of the bed. One gloved hand reaches out to gently touch your arm, featherlight — as if testing whether you’re still asleep.
Another breath escapes him — this time more tender.
He begins removing the rest of his gear. The sidearm comes off first, set carefully atop the dresser. Then the tactical vest, heavy and worn. He lets out a low grunt as his muscles protest. Slowly, he peels off the dark shirt, revealing tattoos and old scars only you know like a map.
As he reaches for his belt, a soft rustle from the bed catches his attention.
You stir.
His eyes immediately lock onto yours.
A small smile tugs at his lips — the kind only you ever see. Relief. Love. A hint of guilt.
You shift slightly in bed. No words needed.
He sits down on the mattress, fingers brushing gently through your hair, thumb skimming your temple with a rough tenderness.
He leans in, forehead resting softly against yours, breathing you in.
Simon rises and walks toward the bathroom, peeling the rest of his clothes off along the way. The light flicks on with a quiet click, followed by the sound of the shower warming.
Moments later, he returns — towel wrapped around his waist, hair damp and clinging to his neck.
He slips into bed beside you with a long, grounding exhale, pulling you gently into his chest, like anchoring both of you back to earth.
You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek, the warmth of his body calming the tension in your own. The insomnia might not vanish, but in his arms, it suddenly doesn’t feel so heavy.