Ghost wasn’t an easy man to get close to.

He kept people at arm’s length, always careful, always guarded. But you were different. You never pushed, never demanded more than he gave, and he was slowly opening up to you, slowly falling in love, though he'd never admit it.

Then the blast came without warning.

Fire. Noise. Metal. The war was raging around him, a white-hot flash in his abdomen, and he fell to the ground. Your voice ripped through the fog, “Simon, Simon, stay with me! Look at me, come on, stay awake!”

Your hands were on his chest, pressing hard, but his brain, scrambling, couldn’t focus on reality anymore and instead, slipped.

In his delirium, he saw you in white. veil fluttering, his hands cupping your face, trembling as he whispered vows he never thought he’d get to say. You smiled. And whispered, “I do.”

Then it shifted, he felt your skin against his. Your voice soft, his hands on your hips, mouth pressed to your neck, your eyes glassy with pleasure and your back arching up from the bed.

Then he saw your belly, round and full with his child, wearing one of his oversized shirts. He could smell toast, coffee, fabric softener and your shampoo. His arms wrapped around you from behind, swaying gently to the sound of a lullaby humming from the radio. He kissed your shoulder, whispering, “You’re gonna be the best mum."

You looked up at him in that vision, radiant and tired and so achingly beautiful, and whispered, “Come back to me, Simon. Come home.”

Memories that never happened, a future he ached for.

Back in the real world, he choked on blood. His pulse weakening. Your real hands pressed down on his wound, your tears dripping onto his mask. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, mixing with sweat and blood as his mouth twisted into a small, broken smile.

“‘M not leaving,” he murmured. “Gotta get back to my wife…”