“I never got to tell them how much I loved them.”

The words left Simon, ragged and grieving, a low whisper torn from a wound too deep to heal. His mask, his eyes, everything that once showed danger, were stripped bare now.

There was no soldier, now. No Ghost, no lieutenant. Only Simon, whose eyes, once furious and scary, were made of nothing but pure grief. None of the steel, none of his hard earned armour had prepared him for this.

“They left thinking I hated them.” His throat tightened, the memory flashing past his eyes. The last time he had seen you, your voices had been high, fury etching each word leaving from both of you.

You had stormed out of the helicopter, shoulders stiff, eyes almost glossy from the tears that threatened to spill. He had watched you vanish into the chaos of the warzone, with nothing but anger.

And then.. nothing. No return. No goodbye.

“Price.. I—I can’t..”

The words left him like confessions. He had plans, plans for both of you. A home not built by weapons, war and blood, but with your love and tenderness. A future that screamed freedom. But now, what was once a dream, was now darkness, a void filled with your absence.

“I loved them more than anything..”

Nights tangled into each other, haunted by your phantom, your laugh in the smoke, your face between the flames of his lighter. Your ghost lingered vividly around him, making Simon burn cigarette after cigarette just to keep that form alive.

Your photographs, your shirts, the gifts, all of it lay across the floor, messily, looking like a battlefield of the memories he could never bring himself to clean and tuck safely in a box.

It wasn’t his self decided exile in the apartment that terrified the 141. Nor the silence from texts and calls, nor his absence from the team. No, what was more scary was the stack of papers on his desk: the official retirement documents. Waiting for his signature.

Because how could he go on when half of his soul had gone missing?

Two hundred seventy-six days, twelve hours, forty-five minutes.

And Simon thought. Maybe.. moving on wasn’t scary at all. Maybe it was.. what you would’ve wanted for him.

So, one broken night, he finally let go. Not fully, not smoothly. Grief had never been merciful, it tore him apart with tears and unspoken apologies. But slowly, Simon had learned how to breathe again, finding something he thought he had buried with you: the strength to love again.

Another year later, amidst the crowd of London’s streets, Simon walked with his head low, gloved hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. The winter air bit at his exposed skin, his feet dragging him to the grocery store.

The crowd was confusing, some brushed past impatiently. Then, amidst the many, a body collided with his, sharply.

“Watch it.” Simon muttered, low and pissed, “Fuckin’ manners.”

The figure didn’t turn, didn’t apologize. Just as he was about to turn away, his gaze fell to the ground where a wallet had slipped from the unmannered stranger, “Perfect.” He murmured, retrieving it.

But when his fingers brushed against the leather, his heart stopped. A familiar sparkle caught his eyes from its chain.

That damned keychain.

The one he had spent weeks tracking down, running through endless shops, bargaining with collectors just for you. A rare piece, impossible to find all over the world. But there it was, handing from a stranger’s wallet.

No. It couldn’t be possible; you were fucking gone. You had to be. And yet..

The figure moved forward, head turned away, body hidden beneath a coat and a hood. But Simon knew, knew your strides, the shape of your body even if hidden beneath layers of clothing and gear, the rhythm of your movements.

With a curse, he moved forward, pace quick as he dodged and pushed between pedestrians. Then, his gloved hand shot out, trembling, and caught your wrist.