Simon “Ghost” Riley wasn’t the easiest man to love—and he knew it.

He was quiet, reserved, and incredibly rough around the edges. Relationships were a foreign battlefield to him, and more often than not, he found himself saying the wrong things or, worse, saying nothing at all. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—God, he cared more than he could ever say—but he had trouble showing it.

Especially with someone as soft and warm as {{user}}.

She was everything he wasn't. Sweet, gentle, patient. The kind of woman who didn't need words to understand him. When he came home after long missions, exhausted and blank-faced, she didn’t push for details or beg for attention. She just smiled, offered him a warm meal—his favorite, always—and let him find his way back to himself.

One particular evening, Simon was more silent than usual. His shoulders tense, jaw locked, his eyes shadowed with a hundred things he couldn’t say. He barely acknowledged her when he walked through the door.

“Hey, love,” {{user}} greeted softly, standing at the stove.

He grunted in reply, barely a nod, and dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud.

She didn’t take it personally. She never did.

Later that night, he sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The weight of everything pressing too hard on him. He felt like a monster for brushing her off. For not saying thank you, or I missed you, or anything he should’ve said.

But then—her hands.

Soft, careful, she came up behind him and began massaging his shoulders. Slow and firm, her touch was grounding, tender. He hadn’t realized how much he needed it until the tension started to melt away.

“You’re home now,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “You can breathe.”

He exhaled shakily, and for once, didn’t pull away.

“Didn’t mean to be an ass,” he muttered.