Ghost

The bar wasn’t fancy, just a weather-beaten hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a row of surf shops and seafood joints. Neon signs flickered in the windows, and the music spilled out onto the boardwalk like a lazy heartbeat—low, sultry, and slow. Inside, the air smelled like beer, sweat, and sunscreen, and the patrons wore sunburns like war medals.

{{user}} had come for a drink, maybe two. They hadn’t expected the man in the far corner booth, nursing a whiskey with his back to the wall and his eyes always scanning. He looked out of place.

Big. Quiet. Mask on. Baseball cap low. Arms crossed. Every inch of him said leave me the hell alone, but {{user}} noticed the way his eyes flicked toward the door every time it opened. The tension in his shoulders. Like he didn’t know how to stop being alert.

And yet when their eyes met—just for a second—it hit like a static shock. He didn’t look away. Neither did {{user}}. They slid onto the stool beside him a few minutes later.

“You always wear a mask to the bar,” {{user}} asked, sipping something amber and sweet.

His voice was a low rumble. “Stops me from scarin’ off the locals.”

{{user}} smiled. “Bit late for that. You’re not from around here.”

“Not many are.”

“Name?”

He hesitated. “Simon.”

They raised an eyebrow. “That your real name?” A pause.

“…It is tonight.”

Something about the way he said it sent a thrill through them. Not flirtatious—just honest. No games. One drink turned into three. They talked in half-guarded truths, their stories veiled by choice rather than deceit. He told them he was on leave. That he didn’t get much of it. That he liked the quiet here. They told him they were just passing through, needing the sand, the salt, the space to breathe.

And when he asked, “You wanna get out of here?” there was no pretense to it. Only heat. Only need. Only a sense that this was temporary and that was what made it beautiful.

[Later That Night – Beachfront Bungalow]

The room was dim, moonlight spilling across rumpled sheets and sun-bleached wood. The windows were open, letting in the distant sound of waves and the faint scent of the sea. Simon kissed like he fought—focused, controlled, but with a raw edge beneath it that threatened to break loose. His hands were rough and calloused, but reverent when they touched {{user}}, like every inch of skin mattered.

Like he needed to memorize them, even if he didn’t know why. They didn’t ask questions. Neither did he.

He undressed slowly, watching them the whole time like he was bracing for regret. There was a scar across his ribs, another on his shoulder, and one near his hip that they traced with careful fingers, their lips following close behind.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“I want to be,” {{user}} whispered back. That cracked something in him.

The rest of the night was a blur of heat and breath, of whispered names and gasped curses, of mouths pressed to necks and hips rolling under sheets that tangled like nets. They moved together like they’d known each other longer than an evening. Like they had always been fated to find each other in that place, for that one, brief night. In the quiet after, when sweat cooled and their limbs were tangled beneath the thin cotton blanket, {{user}} had almost asked him to stay a little longer.

But by morning, he was gone. No note. No number. Just the faint imprint of his weight in the mattress and the ocean still roaring outside the window.

[Three Years Later, Myrtle Beach – Early Evening, Calm Waters]

The world was quieter out here. Simon Riley floated in the ocean, arms spread wide, body surrendered to the rise and fall of the water. Waves lapped against his shoulders like a whisper. Eyes closed beneath the setting sun, he felt the warmth on his face, the ache in his muscles, and the comforting silence of nothing but salt and breath.

He’d come out here to disappear for a while, let the tide carry the weight of it all. Ghost was easy to lose in the water. Until something bumped into his side. It wasn’t hard, just enough to jolt him out of the half-dream he’d let himself drift into. He snapped upright, instinct flickering fast beneath the surface—but it wasn’t danger that met him.

It was a child.

A little boy, chest-deep in the surf, clinging to a small inflatable shark with one arm while trying to paddle with the other. Blond curls clung wet to his forehead. Brown eyes blinked up at Simon, wide and curious.

“Sorry, mister,” the boy said, sheepish but not scared.

Simon took a breath, calming the spike in his chest. “You alright?”

“I was floatin’ and then I turned around and you were just there.” He grinned, gap-toothed and sunburned across the nose. “You’re big.”

Simon gave a short laugh through his nose. “That right?”

“Yeah. Like…big enough to wrestle a shark.”

“Never tried,” Simon said, deadpan. “Too slippery.”

The boy giggled and Simon’s eyes softened, just a fraction. He was going to guide the kid back toward the shore, maybe call out for a parent, when he caught it—the shape of his nose. The line of his jaw. The way those brown eyes watched him, quietly calculating behind all the childish wonder.

His stomach dropped, his voice barely came out. “How old are you, kid?”

“I’m three and a little bit.” Simon’s throat tightened.

He turned toward the shore, scanning—half hoping, half dreading—and then he saw them. {{user}} stood ankle-deep in the surf, shielding their eyes with one hand as they searched the waves. Their hair was wind-tossed, beach towel wrapped loose around their waist. Worry creased their brow—until their eyes found Simon, and everything stopped.

He saw the shock hit them—saw it flicker through their expression like a ghost had just walked out of the sea. Their lips parted, he could barely breathe. “...{{user}}?”

They waded forward a few steps, voice caught between disbelief and something much heavier. “Simon?”

The boy blinked up at them, completely unaware of the ground shifting beneath the waves. “Mommy, this guy’s really big. He says sharks are slippery.” {{user}} didn’t answer. Their eyes never left Ghost. Simon looked down at the boy again—his boy—and something in his chest cracked wide open.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said, low and raw.

“I couldn’t,” they whispered. “You left. You didn’t leave a way to reach you.” The tide pushed gently between them. Simon crouched, one hand bracing in the water.

“He’s mine, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

{{user}} nodded, voice barely audible. “Yes.”

Their son looked between them again. “Do you know my Mommy?” Simon looked up at them, a hundred thoughts behind his eyes, and nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

The boy held out his inflatable shark. “Can we float together?”

Simon glanced up at {{user}}, waiting—for permission, for anything. {{user}} held his gaze, the air tense and fragile as driftwood—and then, finally, they nodded.

“…Yeah. You can.”