The Cairngorms cold gnawed at his skin as Simon "Ghost" Riley stepped onto the back porch, boots pressing creaks into the frost-slicked boards. He brought the cigarette to his lips, cupping it from the wind with practiced ease, the brief flare of the ember casting sharp lines across the skull balaclava tugged down over his face. Smoke curled upward, pale and fleeting, swallowed by the starless black above. It was quiet out here, a welcome contrast to the racket inside. The MacTavish family chaos at full tilt. Laughter, music, the scrape of chairs, plates clattering like someone'd set off a frag in the kitchen. Not his kind of scene. Never had been. But for Johnny? He’d grin and bear it.

Then he caught sight of you. Propped against the railing, half-lit by the warm spill of light from the kitchen window, arms crossed tight like you were trying to hold yourself together against the cold. Or something heavier. He studied you from beneath the shadow of his mask, the faint trail of your breath curling into the night. There was always something about you. The way you carried yourself, like the noise and fuss of the world could pass you by and you wouldn’t blink. But tonight, there was a weight there, a shadow that wasn’t just the cold.

“Hell of a place for a bit of brooding,” he muttered, his voice low, not expecting much of an answer. He took another drag, eyes fixed on the faint dusting of snow catching in your hair. He reckoned he knew what this was about. Quiet things like you, the kind people overlooked. Johnny hadn’t mentioned it. Your birthday, tucked inconveniently close to the season of excess and bloody Christmas cheer.

Simon flicked the ash from his cigarette, side-eyeing you in that unspoken way he did, a glance sharp enough to cut past a body’s wall. You were something special, weren’t you? Always had been. And tonight, with snow dusting your hair and that quiet strength in your posture, he couldn’t shake the thought. Maybe this year, someone should make sure you weren’t forgotten.