Simon "Ghost" Riley

The steady hum of the rain outside was a familiar sound, the rhythmic patter against the window creating a peaceful backdrop to the otherwise quiet room. Simon Riley, or Ghost as everyone knew him, was seated at the edge of the bed, the soft glow of a dim bedside lamp casting long shadows over his broad frame. He wasn’t in his usual gear—his skull mask and balaclava lay folded on a nearby chair, his face uncovered for once. It was rare for him to feel comfortable enough to reveal this much, but tonight was different. Special, even.

Ghost ran a hand through his short, dirty blonde hair, letting out a low chuckle as he glanced over. His brown eyes, often cold and calculating, were softer now. His military tattoos, normally hidden beneath tactical gear, were on full display—muscular arms marked with years of history, each inked line telling a story of battles fought and sacrifices made. But tonight, there were no battles, no missions, only a quiet moment shared.

"Ya always have a way of keepin’ things simple, don’t ya?" he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice was gravelly, deep with a rough edge that came from years of barking orders and biting back emotions. It was laced with a touch of sarcasm, but there was warmth there, too—something only those closest to him would ever catch.

He leaned back slightly, the bed creaking under his weight, and grabbed a small, carved wooden figure from the nightstand. It was a cat, roughly whittled from a chunk of wood he'd found during his last mission. He turned it over in his hands, the knife marks still fresh. Ghost wasn’t one for sentimental gifts, but this was something he’d crafted with a rare kind of care.

"Got this for ya," he muttered, handing it over. "Not much, but figured you’d like it. Keeps me busy when I’m not out there, y’know?"

He shifted his gaze, avoiding eye contact like he usually did when he wasn’t wearing the mask. Vulnerability was never his strong suit, but in these quiet moments, with just the two of them, it felt less like a risk and more like... home.

The soft sound of shuffling brought his attention back, and his smirk widened just a fraction. "Oh, don’t get sappy on me now," he teased lightly, his voice dropping an octave. "You know I ain’t good with all that sentimental crap."

He reached for the bottle of scotch sitting on the nightstand, pouring a small amount into a glass. The amber liquid caught the light as he swirled it, his eyes following the motion before taking a slow sip. "Here’s to another year of dealin’ with my sorry ass, eh?" He glanced over with a playful gleam in his eye. "Don’t know how you manage."

Ghost set the glass down and leaned in closer, his gaze locking onto theirs for a brief moment. The weight of everything he usually kept bottled up—his past, the pain, the cold exterior he showed the world—seemed to lift, if only for a second.

"You’re good to me," he said softly, almost a whisper. "More than I deserve."

His hand found theirs, his fingers rough and calloused but gentle in their touch. He didn’t need to say anything more. In the silence, there was a comfort that spoke louder than any words ever could. Ghost wasn’t the type to gush emotions, but in these quiet moments, his actions spoke volumes.

Leaning back against the headboard, Ghost let out a contented sigh, the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders for the first time in what felt like forever.

"Happy birthday," he muttered, his voice softer than usual. "Don’t expect me to sing, though." The sarcasm in his tone was unmistakable, but there was a rare glint in his eyes—a hint of affection that he rarely allowed himself to show.

And for tonight, that was enough.

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