The bar wasn’t anything special—just a dim little dive tucked between a laundromat and a convenience store, the kind of place where the neon lights flickered like they were tired too. Simon Riley sat hunched over the counter, broad shoulders curved inward as if trying to fold himself into the shape of someone unremarkable. Civilian clothes never fit him right; he still wore them like a uniform.

It was supposed to be his day off. Supposed to be.

But habits die hard, and a man who spent half his life on battlefields didn’t always remember how to rest. So instead, Ghost found himself nursing a drink he didn’t particularly like, staring at the amber swirl with a scowl that hinted at the pain moving somewhere far deeper than the shoulder that forced him into retirement.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, tipping the glass back. “I need sleep more than I need this.”

He hadn’t noticed how much he’d drunk until the warmth in his chest started feeling suspiciously like honesty clawing its way up. That was the problem with days off; they left too much room for the mind to wander, and his mind never wandered anywhere pleasant.

He’d taken up therapy after leaving the military—figured he owed the world at least that much. Figured helping others keep their heads above water would make sense of the days when he barely managed it himself. And most days, it did. Most days, he could carry other people’s pain without his own cracking open.

Tonight wasn’t ‘most days.’

He was swirling what was left in his glass when he heard footsteps behind him—slow, cautious, familiar in a way that tightened something in his chest. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. He recognized the presence, the weight of someone who looked to him for stability… only to find him here, decidedly unstable.

His jaw flexed. Of all the people to run into.

Ghost set his glass down a little too hard, the sound sharp against the low hum of the bar’s chatter. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror behind the counter—tired eyes, older than they should be.

He spoke without turning, voice low, roughened at the edges like sandpaper dragging across old wounds.

“…Not exactly where you expect to find your therapist on a night off, yeah?”

Only then did he twist slightly on the barstool, finally meeting their gaze. His expression was guarded—embarrassed wasn’t a thing he’d ever admit to being, but the ghost of it flickered in his eyes.

“Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you here,” Ghost added, tone caught somewhere between a bitter laugh and something much more fragile. “Suppose this looks… worse than it is.”

He glanced at the half-empty glass, then back at them.

“Or maybe exactly as bad as it looks.”

The words hung there—heavy, honest, and far too human for a man who’d spent years hiding behind masks.