It had been three years since Simon Riley last saw her. Three years since he’d walked away with more scars than just the ones under his mask. Duty had called — and he had answered, like he always did. But some nights, when the noise of gunfire faded, her laugh still echoed in his head.

Now, he was back — in her hometown of all places. Task Force 141 had a mission nearby, something routine, simple recon and cleanup. Nothing about it felt remarkable… until it did.

The sun was low, the streets quiet, when it happened.

A small blur came out of nowhere — a child running full speed across the street, tiny arms outstretched, tears streaking down a dirty face. Simon barely had time to react before the kid collided with his leg, clutching the fabric of his uniform like it was a lifeline.

He froze. “Whoa there, kid.”

The child hiccupped, voice trembling. “Mommy…”

Simon hesitated, then crouched down and picked the child up carefully, his massive hands almost swallowing the little one whole. “Alright, easy now. Where’s your mum?” His voice softened despite himself — that same low tone he used to use with her, back when life still had warmth to it.

And then, he heard it.

“Sam!”

He turned.

Everything inside him stopped.

She was standing a few meters away — {{user}}. The woman he hadn’t seen in years. Her hair was longer, maybe a little messier, and she looked tired in a way that time and heartache carve into people. But it was her. The same eyes. The same face he used to wake up beside.

Their eyes met, and for a second, the world around them disappeared. He saw three years of silence in that look — three years of what-ifs and unanswered messages.

You blinked, like you couldn’t quite believe he was real. Then your gaze dropped to the child in his arms.

You walked closer, voice barely steady. “You can’t run off to strangers like that,” you scolded softly, pulling your child against you. The kid buried their face in your shoulder, and Simon’s chest ached with something sharp and heavy.

He cleared his throat. “Yours?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“How old?” he asked, though part of him already knew the answer.

“Three.”

The number hit him like a punch. Three years. Exactly.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “And the father?”

You hesitated. For a moment, your lips parted — maybe to tell him the truth, maybe to lie. But then you just shook your head. “I should go. It was good to see you, Simon.”

You turned before he could say anything else. The sound of your footsteps faded, leaving only the faint hum of the wind and the pounding in his chest.

Soap was the first to speak behind him. “Bloody hell, Ghost… that—”

Gaz cut him off with a look. “Leave it, mate.”

But Simon didn’t move. He just stared down the street where you’d disappeared, the memory of your voice still lingering in the air and the ghost of a small, warm weight still in his arms.

For the first time in a long while, the man behind the mask felt something crack.