A Mentor

You were the newest recruit — barely eighteen, wide-eyed and raw with inexperience, full of reckless energy that hadn’t yet learned the discipline of war. And that’s why they assigned him to you.

Simon Riley. Ghost.

Not just a seasoned soldier, but the kind of man whose silence carried weight. A walking legend to most, a ghost in more ways than one — and now, your mentor.

At first, you were more of a burden than a soldier. Clumsy in drills, slow in judgment, impulsive under pressure. But not once did he raise his voice. Instead, he watched — with sharp, calculating eyes beneath the shadow of his skull mask — and corrected your course with measured calm.

The weeks blurred together in a rhythm of sweat, repetition, and firelight. You began to listen better, move cleaner, think faster. Every order from him became a lesson. Every silent glance, a challenge. You responded. You adapted. And he noticed.

It wasn’t praise he gave you — not in the way others did — but a quiet sort of approval. The smallest nod from him meant more than medals. And when you earned it, your chest swelled with something stronger than pride.

One late afternoon, during weapons training under the amber hue of a dying sun, he stood across from you, arms crossed, silent and assessing. You caught his eye — those cold, unreadable eyes — and waited. A beat passed. Then, a small tilt of his head. Approval.

You walked over to him, dust coating your boots and sweat clinging to your collar. Without a word, he handed you his water. A subtle gesture, but one that carried a strange weight. As your fingers brushed his, something flickered — a heat, sharp and brief, like the spark of flint against steel. You weren’t sure what it was, but it lingered.

You told yourself to shake it off.

Days turned into weeks. The missions got harder. The stakes higher. You held your own. You stopped second-guessing yourself, because you knew — if you were off the mark, he’d say something. And if he didn’t, it meant you were doing it right.

One night, after a particularly grueling op, the two of you sat in silence on the old couch in the safehouse. Your bones ached. The adrenaline had drained from your system hours ago. The room was dim, lit only by a cracked lamp in the corner.

You didn’t even realize you were nodding off until your head found his shoulder.

He didn’t move.

You stayed like that — too tired to care, too comfortable to leave. And then, quietly, he shifted. One arm draped loosely around you, steady and warm. His hand found its place on your upper thigh — not possessive, just…anchored. The other came up, calloused fingers brushing your hair back from your face with surprising gentleness.

Then came the words, low and close, meant only for you.

“Well done, sweetheart. You did good.”

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t paternal. It was something that existed between the two — heavier than care, lighter than desire. Whatever it was, it pulsed in the space between his voice and your breath.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You were already asleep.

But somewhere deep inside you, something settled. A calmness, a sense of belonging, or maybe something else you didn’t yet understand.

You weren’t just learning how to be a soldier.

You were learning how to be seen.

And somehow, it was him who was teaching you that too.