The low hum of city life filled the air—cars rolling by, distant chatter, the occasional bark of a dog or screech of a braking cab. The evening sun bled gold across the skyline, its last light catching the smudged windows of a small diner tucked between a bookstore and a barber’s. It was the kind of place no one looked twice at, a relic of quieter times with its flickering neon sign and mismatched patio chairs. That’s why Simon chose it. Quiet. Simple. Out of the way.
He stood near the edge of the patio now, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket, the fabric weathered and frayed at the seams. His mask was long gone for once—just a man with tired eyes and too much weight in his chest. He watched {{user}} at the table, how the breeze toyed with strands of her hair, sunlight catching on her skin. She was his world wrapped in soft denim and a pastel-colored top, flipping through the menu like it was the most important thing in the world. And to her, maybe it was. A moment of normalcy. A slice of peace.
He couldn’t help the faint twitch of his lips when she smiled at the drink specials, head tilted slightly as though the choice between tea and lemonade demanded strategic planning. He’d been through firefights quieter than his heart in that moment.
“Oi.”
The voice cut through his thoughts. Simon turned, shoulders tensing on instinct, to see John MacTavish standing a few feet away—arms crossed, brow drawn tight beneath the brim of his cap. Soap looked out of place here, his presence too loud for the quiet edges of the city. He looked less like a soldier and more like a man caught between irritation and disbelief.
“Ye weren’t answerin’ yer bloody phone,” Johnny said, tone sharp but not unkind.
Simon gave a small shrug. “Figured the world could live without me for an afternoon.”
Johnny’s gaze followed his, landing on {{user}}. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression shifting from confusion to something that looked dangerously close to understanding. “So this is what ye’ve been sneakin’ off for, aye?” he asked, voice low. “Ye’ve got a lass?”
Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence said enough. His eyes—steady, unwavering, drawn only to her—said even more. She was tracing the rim of her glass now, tapping her fingers idly against the table in rhythm with the song humming from the diner’s old radio. Completely oblivious.
“Lass donae know who ye are, does she?” Johnny said softly, the realization threading through his words.
Still, Simon said nothing. The silence between them stretched, heavy and full.
“Bloody hell, Ghost,” Johnny muttered under his breath.
“It’s Simon,” he said flatly, eyes hard, voice low but final.
Johnny stepped closer, boots scraping against the pavement. “Ye’ve got tae tell her.”
Simon scoffed, a bitter sound that almost passed for a laugh. “Tell her the truth?” he muttered, gaze still locked on {{user}}. “What? So she can see the stars she admires through tears, fault her from the path of the sun she’s meant to walk?” His voice softened as he spoke, not poetic by intention but by inevitability—the kind of words that slipped out when truth pressed too close to the ribs. “No.”
Johnny blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the rawness of it—rare, sharp, and soaked in something dangerously close to mourning. There was always more to Simon than the mask let through, and this moment cracked the armor wider than John liked.
“No,” Simon repeated, quieter now, like the word itself was an anchor. “Let her think she’s just seeing a man named Simon Riley. A butcher.”
“Christ, lad,” Johnny breathed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Ye’re in deep.”
Simon’s jaw flexed once, a silent admission. Then, without another word, he turned away and walked back toward her, his steps slow but certain. She looked up as he approached, that familiar smile breaking across her face—the one that could thaw through all the frost he carried. He slid into the seat opposite her, and for a moment, as her laughter drowned out the noise of the city, Simon Riley wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t Ghost.