Your phone buzzed. Again.

Another message from him.

Simon Riley. Callsign Ghost. SAS. War-stained and battle-scarred and probably the last man on Earth who should know your favorite snack, your bedtime routine, or what face you make when you’re concentrating.

But he does. Knows it all.

Every emoji he sends lands like a hammer in your chest: 💀🍷🖤 “Missed ya today. Thought about you more than I should’ve.”

Miles away, he’s holed up in a flat that never sees guests, wearing a black hoodie and his balaclava like armor. Except when he talks to you. That’s when it comes off. That’s when he shows you the face the world isn’t allowed to see—scarred, tired, real.

He prints your pictures. Every one you post. Keeps them in a thick leather-bound album with your name carved into the spine. You don’t know that part. Not yet.

Tonight, his message comes with a voice note. Graveled and low, like gunmetal scraping stone.

“Y’ever think ‘bout meetin’ in person?” he asks. You can hear the edge in his voice—hope disguised as casual. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ the real smile. Not just the filtered one. Wouldn’t mind showin’ you who I am, either… properly.”

A pause. Then quieter:

“Promise I’m not as scary in person. ‘Less someone tries to touch you.”