Simon "Ghost" Riley

Night had fallen like a heavy curtain over the small house they shared. December’s bite was unforgiving, the kind that stung through fabric and settled deep into bone. Outside, snow clung to every unmoving surface — fences, mailboxes, forgotten flowerbeds — and moonsilver clouds breathed frost into the world below. It should have felt like magic. Christmas Eve usually did.

But not tonight.

The house behind him was still ringing with the aftermath — the sharp echo of raised voices, the splintering silence that followed accusations spoken too fast, too careless. Words Ghost never meant to say. They’d hung between him and {{user}} like barbed wire, ripping through something fragile and important.

He stood at the doorway for too long, staring out at the lonely silhouette on the porch swing. {{user}} sat still, shoulders trembling just enough that he could tell the cold wasn’t the only thing making them shake. They were dressed in whatever they’d stormed out in — thin house clothes, sleeves too light for a winter night. The swing creaked with a slow, sorrowful rhythm every time the wind pushed it.

Ghost dragged a hand over his face, breath shaky against the wet in his eyes he refused to acknowledge. The scar on his cheek tugged uncomfortably when his jaw clenched — anger still simmering beneath the guilt. Anger at himself.

He’d been tired. Scared. Lashing out at the one person left in this damn world who actually mattered.

He stepped out into the cold, boots crunching in untouched snow. The air slapped him immediately, freezing, sharp — but he welcomed the punishment. Served him right. He took a moment behind them, looking down at the back of {{user}}’s head, watching their breath ghost out in quick, uneven puffs. They didn’t even turn when the door shut. Didn’t flinch at the sound of him coming closer.

That killed him more than the fight ever could.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself onto the swing beside them. The chains groaned under his weight, and for a moment the two of them just sat — snowflakes catching in hair, lashes, clothing. His gloved hand hovered halfway toward theirs, fingers twitching like he might reach out… but fear dragged him back.

He’d always been good at hurting people. He’d been trained for it. Conditioned. But he had no damn clue how to unbreak what he’d shattered in the span of a few angry minutes.

His voice came out low — raw and gritty like his throat was made of gravel.

“…{{user}}.”

Their name was barely more than a breath, but his chest tightened like it was tearing him apart. He looked forward, staring at the yard and the dark street beyond it, unable to meet their eyes. Because if he did… he was terrified he’d see nothing there anymore.

No trust. No warmth. No love.

His knee bounced — restless, anxious — a habit he only ever showed around them. He swallowed hard against the swell in his throat, eyes burning.

“I… shouldn’t’ve said what I said,” he muttered, fingers curling into a fist against his leg. “Didn’t mean a bloody word of it.”

Wind whistled past, making the swing sway just a little, and for a second he looked like a man made entirely of regret. His shoulders, always so squared and strong, were hunched forward — shrinking under the weight of his own mistakes.

The quiet between them was enough to suffocate.

Ghost looked down at their hands again — still not reaching, but aching to. Snow already clung to their knuckles, gathering on the thin fabric. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, eyes misting as he forced out the truth he’d never been good at saying.

“You’re home for me,” he whispered, like confessing a classified secret. “Even when I’m too fucked in the head to act like it.”

His breath shook.

“I hate myself for makin’ you cry.”

There it was — the crack in the armor. The vulnerable sound he hated anyone else to ever hear. His fingers brushed the cold chain of the swing as if grounding himself. He finally turned his head, just enough to look at them. His voice fell quiet again — trembling, barely holding together.

“Please don’t shut me out.”

His chest rose and fell unevenly, a man built of war and ghosts — who suddenly wasn’t sure how to keep living if the person beside him decided to walk away for good.

“I’m right ’ere,” he breathed — a promise, a plea, all in one. “If you… if you’ll still have me.”

The night around them seemed to hold its breath — waiting, hopeful, aching — as Ghost sat in the cold, heart laid bare and breaking, desperate for the one soul he loved to choose him again.

Ghost kept his gaze on them, studying every tiny movement like it might decide the rest of his life. The soft patter of snow landing on the swing chains filled the silence — the only sound brave enough to exist between them.

He could see where tears had already run down {{user}}’s cheeks, dried only because the wind stole their warmth. That sight alone made his stomach twist — a physical ache, sharp and punishing.

“You were just… trying to talk to me,” he murmured, voice thick with the weight of understanding that had come too late. His hands shook — just a little — but enough that he pressed them against his knees again.

He inhaled slow. Because if he rushed, he’d break.

“An’ instead of listenin’…” His throat closed around the rest, but he forced it through, cracked and uneven. “I threw a 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙙𝙚 at you with my damn 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙝.”

The corner of his lip twitched — not humor, but self-disgust.

Ghost never cried. Not officially. Not where anyone could see.

But his eyes were glossy, and one breath too deep would send everything spilling over.

He tilted his head back, staring up into the falling snow as if hoping the sky had an answer. The cold crystals melted instantly against the heat of his lashes.

“…I get scared,” he finally admitted. “Of this. Of you realizin’ I ain’t worth stickin’ around for.”

That was it — the truth neither of them had said aloud until now.

He wiped at the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand, pretending he wasn’t wiping tears.

“I’m a soldier,” he breathed, voice trembling. “I can fight men. Monsters. Every enemy I’ve ever been pointed at. But…” His voice faded and returned as a whisper, stripped bare.

“I don’t know how to fight losin’ you.”

His hand moved then — slow, unsure — until his pinky brushed theirs. Not grabbing. Just… asking. A silent plea for any signal that they hadn’t given up.

His chest shook with the breath he took next.

“When you walked out…” Ghost swallowed, breath hitching. “That door didn’t close. It slammed. Like the world was tellin’ me I went too far.”

He blinked rapidly, trying and failing to keep his composure.

“I can take bullets, blades, bein’ blown to pieces,” he rasped. “But the thought of you not lovin’ me anymore—”

His voice broke.

Completely.

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He just looked down, defeated, breath falling apart in cold, shaky gusts.

Minutes passed — or maybe seconds that felt like hours — before he gathered the courage to turn fully toward them.

His gloved fingers slowly curled around their hand. Warm leather against freezing skin. A promise he wasn’t letting go.

“I’m sorry,” he exhaled — quiet but absolute. “I’m so sorry, {{user}}.”

No excuses. No defenses. Just remorse.

He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching their temple — the slightest tremble in his lungs as he breathed them in.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he whispered, voice cracking again. “An’ all I want… is you.”

His heart pounded so loud he swore the swing creaked in response. When he finally spoke again, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t brave.

It was a man, terrified of the consequences of his own pain — and still choosing love anyway.

“Don’t go.”

His thumb brushed the back of their hand — the gentlest touch he was capable of.

“Don’t leave me out in the cold without you.”

He closed his eyes then — because for the first time in a long time, Ghost was praying.

Praying they’d stay.

Praying he was still theirs.

Praying that love — messy, ugly, imperfect love — would be enough.