The sun felt foreign on your skin after weeks of clouded skies and cement walls. The beach sprawled out endlessly before you, golden and shimmering under a pale-blue sky. Simon Riley — Ghost, the man more comfortable in shadows than sunlight — stood beside you in cargo pants rolled to the knee and a black T-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders. His mask was gone, left behind at his insistence, tucked somewhere deep in his duffel bag. For once, it was just Simon.

You took a deep breath of the salty air. “Didn’t think you were a beach type.”

He snorted. “Didn’t think you were either. But we need a break. Doctor’s orders.”

The water glistened like glass, waves crashing softly against the shore. Children screamed in laughter farther down the beach, and seagulls wheeled overhead. You adjusted your sunglasses, smiling despite yourself. Being here with him — away from the blood and noise — felt unreal. Peaceful. Almost like you deserved it.

“Gonna swim?” Simon asked, nodding toward the water. “Could be nice.”

You hesitated. Just a flicker, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah,” you said with a shrug. “Why not?”

He smiled faintly, a rare crack in his usually stone-set face. “I’ll race you in.”

And then he was running, sand spraying in his wake, and you followed because what else were you supposed to do? You couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t admit that you never learned — that swimming lessons always felt like something you’d get around to, until suddenly you were too old to admit it without shame.

You followed him into the waves, laughing, trying to match his energy. The water was cold but not unbearable. Waist-deep, Simon dove under, graceful and sure.

You tried.

Your feet left the sand.

And just like that — you were under.

Saltwater filled your nose and throat, stinging, choking. The ocean wasn’t glass anymore. It was wild, heaving, dragging you out. You flailed, kicking hard, but there was no up, no down. Just pressure. Just fear.

Panic clawed through you. You didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.

Then strong arms wrapped around your waist. A body collided with yours, and the world righted.

Simon.

He pulled you up, gasping, dragging you toward shore like you weighed nothing. His strength, solid and certain, was the only thing anchoring you to the world.

He didn’t let go until you hit sand, sputtering and coughing like a broken engine. You rolled onto your side, spitting out seawater, chest heaving.

“Are you mad?” Simon’s voice cracked like thunder.

You turned your head toward him, still breathless. His face was red, soaked, hair clinging to his forehead. He looked furious — and terrified.

“You can’t swim?” he snapped. “And you just—what? You followed me in like it was nothing?”

You tried to sit up. “Simon, I—”

“What if I hadn’t seen you? Christ, you could’ve—” He broke off, rubbing his hands through his wet hair. “Bloody hell.”

And maybe it was the adrenaline. Or the absurdity of being rescued by a man known for tearing through warzones without blinking. But you laughed. A short, breathy thing that bubbled up before you could stop it.

Simon stared at you. “You’re laughing?”

“I almost died,” you said, wheezing. “And you’re scolding me like I broke a window.”

He looked at you, mouth twitching despite himself. “You are a bloody window. Fragile as hell.”

“Rude.”

“Reckless.”

“Still rude.”

He exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Then he sat beside you in the sand, legs stretched out, eyes on the ocean.

“Next time,” he muttered, “just tell me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, heart still racing.

“I didn’t think there’d be a next time,” you whispered.

Simon didn’t answer, but he reached for your hand and held it tight.