Simon Riley used to clamber through your window at 17-years-old with a new bruise and a black eye from his father. You'd shut the window behind him and lay him down to kiss his eyelids and hold him until he fell asleep in your arms.

The military grade boots clad on Ghost's feet clunk against the floorboards of your apartment. He holds only two duffel bags. Leaves are a bittersweet sort of thing for the lieutenant. His parents are gone now, so is his brother. There's only you. You have a new set of scars that he'll never let you see, letalone kiss away now.

He drops his bags by the door and has a look around. He always feels a bit too big for your cute little flat. He has a shy sort of look despite how intimidating it comes off as. His eyes flit around curiously despite the seemingly unphasing furrow to his brow.