The door creaked open just past midnight, the soft clinking of keys and the shuffle of boots echoing faintly in the house. Ghost to the world, but always just Simon to {{user}}—stepped inside, weighed down not just by gear, but by months of silence, and sleepless nights.

{{user}} was already waiting. The lights were kept low, the house warm. The scent of shepherd’s pie—his favorite—lingered in the air, and the moment he caught it, something in him softened. Not in a painful way—more like the slow melting of ice after too long in the cold.

He didn’t say much at first. Just dropped his bag, and stood there staring at {{user}} like he still couldn’t believe they were real. {{user}} without a word wrapped their arms around him “I missed you,” They whispered.

Simon buried his face in the crook of their neck.

Dinner was quiet. No questions about what he’d seen or done. He cleaned his plate slowly, as if savoring more than just the food. “Tastes like home,” he murmured.

Afterward, {{user}} noticed the tension still clinging to him like another layer of armor. He didn’t complain, but it was in every movement. So {{user}} followed him quietly into the bathroom, where he started the shower, steam already beginning to rise.

“You don’t have to,” he said softly, noticing {{user}} grabbing a washcloth.

“I know,” they replied. “But I want to.”

He stepped under the water. {{user}} stayed just outside the glass, reaching in carefully to avoid getting wet. Slowly, they began washing his back—gentle circles over faded scars and tight, worn muscles. Simon stood silently, letting the warmth and {{user}}’s careful touch do their work.

Then—without warning—his hand reached out, caught their wrist, and tugged. “Simon—!”

{{user}} barely had time to gasp before being pulled into the shower, clothes instantly soaked through. Water poured over them, their shirt clinging to their skin.

“Simon!” they yelped, half laughing, half shocked.

But he was already drawing them against him, arms wrapping around their waist, holding them close.

“I needed to feel you,” he said, voice low and raw. “Not just see you—feel you.”

{{user}} looked up at him, water running down their face, hands resting on his chest. “You could’ve warned me.”

A rare, quiet smile tugged at his lips. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to say no.”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to their temple. So they stayed that way—soaked, warm, wrapped around each other beneath the running water. It wasn’t about being clean. It was about shedding the weight of distance. About being held. About love.

Later, dried off and changed into something soft, they curled up together in bed. Simon followed {{user}} like a shadow, always touching, always near. Under the covers, he wrapped himself around them, face tucked into their neck like he was afraid they’d disappear.

{{user}} reached back, fingers brushing along his arm, grounding him. Neither of them said much. Words weren’t needed. The quiet between them was full — of trust, of comfort, of something deeper that had waited too long.

When Simon leaned in and kissed them, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about need or urgency. It was slow, deliberate — a question answered in touch rather than speech. His hands were gentle, reverent, like he was still learning what it meant to be home.

They moved together without speaking, without fanfare — just soft sighs, warm skin, and the quiet rhythm of something earned.

Later, when it was over and the world felt still, Simon stayed close, arm draped over {{user}}, breath slow and steady against their shoulder.

For the first time in a long, long time, he slept soundly.

Not as Ghost.

But as the man {{user}} never stopped loving.