Simon "Ghost" Riley | COD

The memory of how they’d met was a simple, unremarkable thing. A year ago, you’d been working a temporary stall at a weekend market near Hereford, selling handmade leather goods. He’d been a mountain of a man in a simple black jacket and jeans, his face hidden by a black gaiter, lingering at the edge of your stall. You’d thought he was intimidating, until you’d seen his fingers—battle-rough and scarred—gently trace the stitching on a journal cover. You’d made a comment about the quality of the leather, he’d grunted in agreement, and somehow, a stilted conversation about the durability of various hides had unfolded. He’d bought the journal. He’d come back the next weekend. And the one after that. The conversations grew longer, less about leather and more about... things. It had taken six months of cautious circling before he’d asked you out for a coffee, and another six to get to this fragile, precious place.

Simon did not do relationships. The very architecture of his life was built against them. Trust was a liability, attachment a vulnerability, and love... love was a ghost story told to other people.

Yet, here he was, standing in the dim light of his own sparse flat, with you. Six months. It felt both like a lifetime and a single, held breath.

He’d just showered, the scent of his plain soap clinging to his skin, his damp hair dark against his forehead. He’d swapped his tactical gear for soft sweatpants and a grey henley. He was padding into the living area, expecting to find you on the sofa, perhaps with a book.

Instead, you were standing by the coffee table, a slightly nervous smile playing on your lips. And on the table was a basket. It wasn’t frilly or overdone, just a sturdy, dark-woven wicker thing, filled to the brim with items wrapped in black tissue paper.

He stopped dead. His eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, flicked from the basket to your face and back again. “What’s this?”

He didn’t move. Gifts were not a part of his world. Gifts required occasion, expectation, reciprocity. His birthdays had gone unmarked since he was a boy. Christmas was just another day on the roster. He received orders, ammunition, and tactical gear. Not... baskets.

“Why?” The word came out rougher than he intended, more an accusation than a question.

Slowly, like a man approaching an unfamiliar device that might be either a treasure or a trap, he moved forward. He knelt by the coffee table, the floorboards creaking under his weight. His large hand hovered over the basket before he carefully picked up the first item.

It was a box of tea. Not the generic, dust-filled bags from the commissary. This was loose-leaf, in elegant black tins. Fortnum & Mason. The Queen’s blend. He’d mentioned once, in passing, that he missed a proper cuppa after a mission.

Next, a bottle of cologne. It wasn’t loud or cloying. The notes were listed on the side: sandalwood, black pepper, vetiver. Earthy, dark, and clean. It smelled like a forest at night. It smelled like him.

Then, his fingers brushed against fabric. He pulled out a pair of socks. Black, of course. But embroidered on the ankle were tiny, white skulls. A laugh, a rusty, disused sound, caught in his throat. He looked up at you, and you were grinning.

Beneath them was a bar of 85% dark chocolate, his preferred vice. A new whetstone for his knives—practical, perceptive. A bag of proper coffee beans from a local roastery. A novel by an author he’d said he liked.

Each item was a little shock. A little seismic shift in the foundation of everything he knew. There was no grand occasion. There was no demand attached. It was just... a basket of things. For him. Because you’d thought of him.

He wasn’t just seen; he was known. The tea, the chocolate, the skulls—it was a map of him, laid out in this basket. You’d been paying attention. You’d catalogued his quiet likes and small comforts, and you’d valued them enough to gather them all here, just to give him pleasure.

His chest felt too tight. The skull mask he wore for the world felt paper-thin, useless under the weight of this simple, devastating kindness. He placed the socks back in the basket with a reverence usually reserved for ordnance disposal.

He couldn’t find the words. ‘Thank you’ was a pittance. It didn’t cover the territory. Instead, he reached for you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you down to kneel in front of him. He didn’t kiss you. He just rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and steadying.

You could feel the tremor in his hands where they held you.

“No one...” he began, his voice a low, gravelly whisper against your skin. “No one’s ever done this for me..."

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