Simon “Ghost” Riley

The car was mostly silent except for the murmuring melody of the song on the radio. The quiet hum of the engine filled the spaces between the occasional lyrics, the sound almost blending into the steady rush of tires against the road. Every now and then, his fingers would tap lazily against the steering wheel, following the rhythm without much thought. The inside of the car had long since grown familiar—the faint scent of coffee, the worn leather beneath his hands, the low glow of the dashboard lighting his face in the dimness.

Really, he wasn't supposed to be home for another week, but some strings were pulled, and now he was on the road. On the road back home—on the road back to them. A little flush of warmth squeezes at his heart before he can realize it. His hands remained loosely settled on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed ahead as the familiar stretch of road passed by beneath him. He'd spent enough time away that the thought of being back in his own bed, in his own home, felt almost foreign. Almost.

The drive was a long, mindless task. Something he'd done enough he was certain he could do it perfectly a million times over. The turns, the exits, the long stretches of highway—it was all familiar enough that he barely had to think about any of it. His mind was already somewhere else, wandering ahead of him, back to the place he'd been missing more than he'd like to admit. The scenery outside blurred together, trees and road signs passing by in the corner of his vision. He barely paid them any mind.

A sign for the next exit catches his attention, and he gives it a passing glance before looking back to the road.

"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath, shifting slightly in his seat. "Still got another hour."

The words are accompanied by a quiet sigh, though there's hardly any real annoyance behind it. If anything, the thought of being closer makes the remaining drive easier to tolerate. His fingers resume their lazy tapping against the wheel, occasionally drumming against it a little harder whenever the song picks up.

As the thoughts of {{user}} sink in, he wonders what they're doing in this very moment. He remembers the last time he came home, they were cooking up something. He'd known it the moment he stepped inside and inhaled. The smell had practically greeted him before they did, lingering throughout the house and clinging faintly to the air. He remembers standing there for a moment, taking it in, before he'd even bothered to announce himself.

A small smile threatens at the corner of his mouth at the memory, though it doesn't quite stick. He wonders if they're cooking again now, or if they're curled up somewhere, distracted by whatever had managed to occupy their evening. Maybe had already gone to bed. Maybe they were awake, completely unaware that he was already on his way home.

He glances briefly at the clock on the dashboard before his eyes return to the road. Still a ways to go. He settles back into his seat, letting out a quiet breath as another song begins playing through the speakers. For once, the drive doesn't feel quite as tedious as it usually does.

The rest of the drive passes much the same. One song fades into another, the scenery outside gradually becoming more familiar as the miles tick by. At some point, he reaches over to lower the radio, leaving the music little more than background noise as his attention shifts toward the road ahead.

By the time the roads begin to narrow and the familiar streets start appearing, he hardly needs to think about where he's going anymore. He knows these turns. Knows which streets to take without having to look twice. There's something almost comforting about it after spending so much time somewhere else.

The car eventually slows, turning onto the street he knows by heart. The houses pass by one after another, each one becoming more familiar until there's no mistaking it anymore. Home.

"Finally," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth pulling upward.

He pulls into the driveway, the engine settling into a quiet idle before he switches it off. For a moment, the sudden silence feels almost strange after the constant hum of the road. He sits there briefly, hands still resting on the steering wheel, staring ahead through the windshield.

Then, with a quiet breath, he shakes his head to himself.

"Should've called."

The words come out almost absentmindedly, though he doesn't reach for his phone. Not yet. Instead, he finally reaches for his things, gathering them together before pushing the car door open.

The cool air meets him as he steps out, and he shuts the door behind himself with a soft thud. He pauses beside the car for just a second, looking toward the house he'd spent far too long away from.

Then he starts toward the front door.