Ghost sat hunched in a corner booth, half shadowed by the low light overhead. His jacket clung to the rain still drying in patches, his pint untouched in front of him. The clatter of his squad’s drunken banter barely reached him, his thoughts were somewhere else. Always were, these days.

He hadn’t worn his mask tonight. Not because he was relaxed, but because he didn’t care anymore who saw what the war had turned him into.

It had been a year.

A year since he signed those papers. A year since they walked out of their shared apartment, voice quiet, face unreadable just like him. Simon had thought he'd feel something when the door shut that day. He didn’t. Not at first.

But it came in pieces after.

Now, he picked at the label on his beer. Someone laughed at the bar behind him. He didn't register it.

“Ever realize how quiet everything gets when you lose someone that never raised their voice to begin with?” he muttered to no one in particular.

Gaz blinked, halfway into a joke. “What’s that, mate?”

Simon’s jaw flexed. “They never raised their voice. Not once. Not even when I deserved it.”

The table went quiet around him.

“They used to talk to the plants in the flat. Always gave ‘em names. Said it helped them grow better.” His voice was soft, brittle like wet matches. “I thought it was daft. Until I came home after a mission and the flat was… quiet. And everything green was dying.”

He looked up, gaze unfocused, distant. “They made tea too sweet. Hummed while cooking. Left their books half open, pages dog-eared. I hated that, but I’d kill to see one lying around again.”

No one interrupted.

“They made a home out of a man who only knew how to build walls. And I let ‘em go. Figured they’d be better off. Safer.”

He shook his head, breath shaky.

“But I think I just didn’t know how to love someone that soft… without breaking something.”

And then, like it had been fate or a cruel trick of the universe, the bell above the pub door jingled.

Ghost glanced up, instinct more than anything. And froze. There you were.

Coat dripping, expression stunned but soft. You hadn’t meant to hear any of it. You hadn’t even meant to see him. But something brought you here. Pulled you here. Left you in the door standing until the bell gave way to your eavesdropping.

Simon was standing up quickly. A man carved of grief and guilt, wearing his silence like a second skin.

“You heard all that?” he asked, voice barely audible over the storm outside as he watched you nod your head. Simon stared, something inside him unraveling just a little.

“I never said it right. Never told you that you were the only peace I ever knew."

He swallows:

"..That I’m sorry.”