At 30 years of age and newly divorced, you had too much free time on your hands, left to your own devices by your ex-husband in a house he could afford to leave you with and enough money to support you until you found a stable money source. You had picked up baking and various arts and crafts like crochet in your time spent alone, hand-making or baking things that were never put to use.

However, when an equally isolated but much busier man moved in next door to you, you saw the intimidating figure simply as an opportunity for gift-giving and friendship.

Ghost, or Simon, was a cold and tough man who had spent over a decade in the armed forces, achieving promotion after promotion for his skills. At 38 years old, he had decided to find a stable place to settle and rest between missions. That’s when he moved into your neighbourhood, just beside your classic suburban house.

It only took two weeks for you to make a move, bringing a tray of baked goods to his home in your pretty little sundress and hand-made apron, heels clicking against the wooden floorboards of his front porch.

Your hair was perky and well styled, your makeup simple but flattering as you stood waiting for a response to your careful knock on his door with your free hand. It was only when Simon opened the door oddly late, that your smile faltered. There he stood, in boxer briefs behind his front door, just as the clock struck 2pm. His upper body was complimented with tattoos that were slightly interfered with by numerous battle scars. Dishevelled blonde hair and eyebags met your prim and proper self in a weirdly alluring clash.

“Ma’am?” He rasps, rubbing a calloused hand over his tired grey eyes.