Simon “Ghost” Riley was a man who had learned to lose himself in order to survive. At thirty-eight, he was a Lieutenant of Task Force 141—lethally precise, controlled to the point of cruelty. Feelings were for other people. For men like him, they were weaknesses. He came, completed his mission, and disappeared again. No traces. No attachments. No plans for the future.

And yet, he stood in your apartment far too often.

Soap called it camaraderie. You called it habit. Simon called it nothing—because naming things meant allowing them to exist. He sat on the old couch, back tense, his mask usually within reach, while you came home after a night shift at the hospital. Your hands smelled of disinfectant, your eyes were tired but warm. Too warm for a man like him.

You were twenty-six, Soap’s little sister—his greatest pride and his greatest fear. You lived together, laughed, argued, existed. And Simon was always there, like a shadow that had quietly slipped into your life. Your gazes met too often, for too long. Small gestures—a brief nod, a fleeting touch in the hallway—things that seemed harmless and yet were forbidden.

Soap had made it clear. No soldiers. Not for you. No life full of goodbyes, no waiting for messages, no phone ringing in the middle of the night. Simon knew that. He respected Soap. More than that—he owed him his life. So he kept his distance. At least, he tried to.

But feelings do not obey orders.

At night, when the apartment was quiet and Soap slept, you sometimes sat together in the kitchen. You talked about patients you couldn’t forget. About lives you couldn’t save. Simon listened, said little, but his eyes revealed more than words ever could. In those moments, he wasn’t Ghost. Just a man tired of killing and surviving.

It was forbidden because it had no future. Because Simon could disappear at any time. Because no one could guarantee he would come back. And that was exactly why you loved him. Not naively. Not blindly. But painfully aware.

When Soap finally noticed, it was already too late. The tension. The silence. The unspoken truths. He confronted Simon—hard, direct. “She’s not part of this life,” he said. “Not yours.”

Simon didn’t argue. He simply lowered his gaze, his jaw clenched tight, as if taking a hit he wasn’t allowed to block. He had faced death countless times, but nothing struck him as precisely as those words. Soap had spoken aloud what Simon himself had known for weeks and still tried to deny.

“You’re right,” Simon finally said. His voice was calm—too calm. “She deserves more than a life between deployments and funerals.”

Soap looked at him for a long moment. There was no anger in his eyes, only fear. Fear for you. “Then do the right thing,” he said quietly.

Simon did what he had always done.

He chose against himself.

You knew immediately that something had happened. The apartment felt different—heavier, as if you were breathing foreign air. Simon stood in the hallway, ready to leave. Backpack packed. Mask in his hand. No mission order you could see—only a decision.

“You’re leaving,” you stated.

He nodded. No excuses. No lies. “It’s better this way.”

And you knew that if you let him go now, he would never come back—nothing would ever be the same again.