Ghost

On base, everything about him still reads as controlled distance. Simon "Ghost" Riley moves through corridors like a fixed point—mask on, posture rigid, attention seemingly locked on mission logistics and nothing else. To anyone watching, there’s no deviation from protocol, no softness, no distraction.

But the reality is built in layers that only exist when no one is looking closely enough.

She knows the rhythm of it now. The way he positions himself slightly behind her in crowded spaces—not protective in an obvious sense, but calculated, so he can reach her without drawing attention. The way his hand will catch her wrist briefly when she starts to drift too far ahead, not stopping her, just anchoring her back into his orbit for a second before releasing.

He doesn’t hide it carefully. He simply doesn’t acknowledge that it needs hiding.

She does.

She’s the one scanning rooms, adjusting her distance, trying to make sure nothing about them looks intentional. Every interaction feels like a tightrope: too close is dangerous, too distant feels wrong.

He never adjusts for that tension.

In briefing rooms, he sits like usual—silent, still—but his knee will press against hers under the table as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. When she stiffens, he doesn’t react. Doesn’t look at her. Just leaves it there until she stops moving away.

In hallways, he’ll guide her with a hand at her back, firm and steady, steering her through passing soldiers without hesitation. To everyone else, it looks like efficiency. To her, it feels like exposure.

Later, when they’re alone for a brief moment in a dim corridor, she finally voices it again—careful, urgent.

“We can’t keep doing this like you don’t care who sees.”

He answers without looking at her. “I don’t.”

And then, as if that settles everything, his hand finds her wrist again—calm, certain, like the conversation never mattered as much as the fact that she’s still there.

She kept her voice low. “You can’t keep doing that in front of people.” Simon "Ghost" Riley didn’t slow down. “Doing what.” “You know what.” She glanced over her shoulder. Empty hallway, but she still lowered her voice. “Standing that close. Touching me like it’s nothing.” He stopped walking. Not for caution—just because she did. “You’re in my way,” he said flatly. “That’s not what I mean.” A pause. His gaze stayed forward, not on her. Then, like it was the simplest thing in the world, his hand caught her wrist. Firm. Controlled. He moved her half a step aside as another soldier passed at the far end of the hall. When they were alone again, he didn’t let go right away. “You overthink it,” he said. “I’m trying not to get us caught.” That got a brief silence. Finally, his grip loosened—but his hand didn’t leave her completely. Fingers still resting there, casual to anyone else, intentional to her. “We won’t get caught,” he said. “You can’t know that.” Now he looked at her. Masked face, unreadable as ever. “I already don’t care,” he said simply. She exhaled. “That’s the problem.”