Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Ghost stalked down the empty corridor, each step echoing louder than the last. The overhead lights flickered—cheap, dim, the kind that buzzed like gnats. He’d just come from training, arms still twitching from the recoil of rubber grips and barked orders. There was always something to correct, someone to scold, someone looking too long at the wrong thing. His patience had been running thin for days.

Back in his barracks, he stumbles upon a familiar shape down by his feet in front of his door. A box. securely taped, hand-labeled. Yours. He raised a brow the second he saw how neatly the box was sealed. You always got a little too careful when you were up to something. He bent down to pick it up and caught himself smiling; just for a second. Like muscle memory.

It pissed him off how much he looked forward to these.

He didn’t open it right away. First came the routine. Gloves off, gear hung up, mask tugged halfway off his face like he might breathe you in better that way. The last time he got one of your packages, he’d just come back from dragging two teammates out of a blown-out building. His hands had still been shaking when he’d opened it. This—your handwriting, your thoughtfulness, your scent clinging faintly to the packing tape... It calmed something in him. Every damn time.

He sat on the edge of his cot, legs spread with the box between his knees like a secret ritual. The tape peeled easy under his fingers, his movements careful, almost delicate like he wanted to savor the moment.

Right on top: snacks. The good kind. The kind you couldn’t get out here. He set them aside one by one, inventorying like always. Toothpaste, soap, that same brand of wipes you insisted smelled “like comfort” (he never told you, but he rationed those more strictly than ammunition). A new pair of black socks, thick, cozy. You always packed socks. Said cold feet made cold hearts. He didn't believe that, but he wore them anyway.

Every item brought a memory. A warmth. A little piece of you.

And then, at the very bottom, sandwiched between soft folds of tissue was your letter. His favourite thing

His chest tightened just looking at the envelope.

You always wrote like you were telling a story. A rambling diary of your month—mundane, messy, painfully honest. You never sugarcoated things for him. You told him when you cried, when you burned your dinner, when your neighbor’s dog barked at nothing for three days straight. And he read it all. Every damn word.

He thumbed open the flap and leaned forward, elbows on knees, as the paper unfolded in his lap.

Your voice was in every line.

His throat worked around a tightness he didn’t want to name. The words blurred at the edges. He blinked hard. And just as he was folding the letter back up; already thinking about where he'd hide it this time, somewhere safer than last, his fingers brushed something else tucked behind the paper.

A smaller sheet. Glossy. Cool to the touch.

He stilled.

Pulled it free.

And there, printed and arranged in a little devilish collage—were photos. You. All angles and shadows and skin, poses that started innocent and then veered nowhere near. You biting your lip, eyes teasing. You, sprawled across your sheets, wearing nothing but a smile and Ghost’s old t-shirt rolled high on your thighs. You with your fingers dipped just out of frame.

There was no message on the back. No need.

He stared.

The letter slipped from his lap.

A low sound rumbled from deep in his chest, dark and sharp and hungry.

"You’ve no fuckin’ clue what you do to me, do you?"

Everyone knew Ghost had a doting partner, showing in the way his packages arrived like clockwork each month. This one was different.